Afghanistan
by Kylen
Summary: Clint Barton was a soldier, a sniper - one of the Army's best. Until his world started falling apart around him ... and two SHIELD agents were in need of a rescue.
1. Prologue

_**Author's notes: Well, the time has come. I've been working on this story now for the last six months, ever since Aggie2011 finally convinced me that my own ideas and writing were good enough to take the plunge into the Avengers' fandom. Aggie, you have been an inspiration and a push beyond anything I could have ever imagined. Without you, this story – and the universe that has developed from it – would never have seen the light of day. I also need to give credit to Nonyvole and AlphaFlyer, both of whom have continued to push me and tell me that, yes, this is worth doing. The support has been endless, so THANK YOU.**_

_**Now, a few housekeeping notes. What I have here is the background story of how Clint Barton and Phil Coulson met. It is not comic canon. It is my take on how they could have met. I've used some of Clint's background as explained in the comics – the circus, his brother Barney, being orphaned and Waverly, Iowa – but it is not canon. I think I've woven a good story nonetheless, and I really hope you enjoy. If it's not your thing, all I ask is that you walk away and not blast me for it. Thanks.**_

_**As such, this story starts in actual life. I have tried to, in many ways, tie Clint and Phil to real life – to place them on Earth, in real time, like the movies have with Tony Stark, Steve Rogers and the like. Trigger warnings: the story (this prologue) starts on 9-11, and then jumps right into the Afghanistan conflict. The story does get graphic in spots, but it's not gratuitous. Reviews are welcome, but please try and keep it constructive if you see something you dislike.**_

* * *

**Prologue**

_Sept. 11, 2001 – roughly 8:30 p.m._

The video screens in front of Nick Fury showed several different networks – all ready to broadcast the same sight. There was a moment of silence, and then the President of the United States suddenly appeared, his face calm and grave.

Fury grimaced. He knew what was coming, thanks to an enthusiastic young SHIELD agent on the President's protection detail with more curiosity than common sense. Still, Fury had read the speech, admired its words – and sincerely doubted it would do any real good for most of the people listening to it.

Someone had to try, though. The President took a breath, and began to speak.

_ "Today, our fellow citizens, our way of life, our very freedom, came under attack, in a series of deliberate and deadly terrorist acts..."_

It took all of a sentence for Fury to begin tuning out the words. He had no doubt the words would calm – they were intended to do exactly that, to reassure a nation that what had happened today had been the isolated act of a select few, and that any further threats could and would be stopped in their tracks. The people of the United States needed to know that their government could protect them – and would, no matter what the cost.

_ "The victims were in airplanes, were in their offices – secretaries, businessmen and women, military and federal workers, moms and dads, friends and neighbors."_

What 99 percent of the population didn't know, though, was that the job of protecting them had failed nine months earlier – and it wasn't just the government that failed, but a department that few knew existed and even fewer wanted to solve their problems. The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division could and often would do anything to solve the problems of the world, but that didn't mean that even they didn't get handcuffed some days.

Damn, he was cynical tonight. Not that it wasn't warranted. In fact –

"Sir." The voice behind him wasn't asking for permission. Instead, the title was simply stated in a voice that clearly expected attention to be paid to its presence. Fury's face quirked into half a smile, and he turned to find himself face to face with a man who was equal parts friend and one of the best agents SHIELD had.

Phil Coulson returned the smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. Fury just sighed.

"Is it confirmed then?" Fury knew what the junior agent had spent the last several hours doing, and the likely reason for his visit. It was a testament to the man's composure that the only emotion Fury read was in Coulson's eyes.

"Yes, sir. Watkins. He was in the E-ring at the Pentagon when the plane hit." Fury winced. Coulson had been in that job until three months ago – when the Security Council had begun raising holy hell with their intelligence-gathering operations in the Middle East. Coulson's value was as an experienced handler and intelligence operative, and that could calm even their temperaments.

"What the hell was he doing in the E-ring at 9:30 a.m.?" Fury couldn't keep the frustration out of his voice. A general staff meeting should have kept Watkins in the C-ring from 8 a.m. until lunch.

"He was late." Fury turned quickly, so he could see Coulson.

"Late?"

"Late." Coulson's face still betrayed almost nothing, but Fury knew enough to see the fire smoldering in his eyes. "His secretary said his car died on the Beltway."

Fury closed his one good eye, resisting a sudden urge to punch something.

"What about Brentley and Lerwick?" Those were the only other two agents who hadn't responded to the all-agency call that had gone out shortly after the first plane hit the North Tower. SHIELD hadn't called an alert like this since the Iranian hostage crisis – not one that had affected the entire network of bases and agents like this – but the response had been gratifyingly swift when it did. There were a handful of undercover agents whose operations just couldn't afford to be compromised, but everyone else had checked in to the tune of about a 99 percent response rate.

But both Brentley and Lerwick had been slated to be in Manhattan Tuesday morning, and neither had checked in.

Coulson nodded, though.

"Both fine, sir." Coulson's mouth quirked into half-smile. "Lerwick had bumped up his flight back to London, and since he was flying commercial, he didn't find out about the attacks until he landed at Heathrow."

"And Brentley?"

"Was helping on scene and lost his cell phone."

Behind him, on the monitor he'd been watching, Fury heard the President's speech draw to a close with a "thank you, good night, and God bless America." He let his hands curl around the railing in front of him, and looked out onto the bridge of the helicarrier.

Fury let out a long, frustrated sigh, resisting the urge to hiss the air out through his teeth. God, it had been a shitty day.

"So, what are the numbers?" He needed to ask, even if whatever the government had issued would no doubt be wildly inaccurate. Coulson responded by walking over to one of the screens, tapping in a few commands, and bringing up a file that immediately displayed "Eyes Only" across the top.

Fury read through the briefing, and inwardly felt a little bit of relief. Already the government had backed off of the initial numbers, which the media had quoted at 25,000 earlier in the day. Now, the number was lower, and the notes on the file said it was likely to drop "significantly further."

There were other notes in the file, and one in particular caught Fury's eye. He tapped the screen with two fingers, then pulled them apart to zoom in on the item. It took a moment for the words he saw to make their way through his brain.

_"Believed to possibly be the work of terrorist regimes in the Central Asia."_

"Goddamnitall to hell." Fury turned away from the screen, and rolled his one good eye. Then he looked right at Coulson, who stood there, seemingly oblivious to Fury's outburst.

"We gave them this information nine months ago." And they had. As soon as the information had been deemed credible, SHIELD had given not just the report, but recommendations to World Security Council – which had then deemed it a "national but not international problem" and handed it off to who they deemed was the appropriate agency.

At the time, Fury thought it was the equivalent of an ostrich and sand. The CIA didn't have the resources to track this down, not with a possible plot only in its embryonic stages. Now, the decision looked criminally negligent.

But who the hell could have predicted THIS?

"'Central Intelligence Agency,' my ass." Fury knew the anger showed in his voice, and was grateful only one person was there to witness it. "'No credible threat, my ass.'"

Coulson let the words roll off his proverbial back, then spoke.

"You don't need to convince me, sir." Coulson broke eye contact, looking back at the bridge, and Fury cursed himself silently. Of course he didn't need to convince Phil Coulson.

It had been that man's agent who'd been killed getting the original intelligence report out of Afghanistan nine months ago.

"I'm sorry, Phil. That was –" The agent just raised a hand, though.

"Never thought it was your fault, sir." Coulson shrugged, and Fury knew that simple motion cost his agent a lot. Nine months might have passed since Coulson's agent had been gunned down in cold blood in a back alley in Kandahar, but the incident had resulted in Coulson requesting a transfer to a desk job – which had landed him at the Pentagon, at least temporarily.

Fury, meanwhile, had put in a request with the Security Council to immediately put more agents in country to neutralize what had been identified as a growing threat. Instead, the Council had told him, in no uncertain terms, that the request was out of proportion to the perceived threat and flatly vetoed any direct action against the three particular groups that had been named in the agent's report.

No amount of arguing had changed their minds, and after six months, Fury had pulled Coulson back to serve as handler for Central Asia intelligence operatives. Right now, common sense at the time seemed like providence in hindsight.

He shot his friend a look with his good eye, trying to find a little humor in the situation.

"Quit calling me sir, Phil. Don't need you to make me feel old today." The joke stood tried and true between the two, the need to define the difference between friends and Director and Agent sometimes blurred, sometimes not. More often than not, Coulson deferred to formality.

Coulson simply tilted his head slightly and shrugged.

"Don't need 'sir' to feel old today." Coulson crossed his arms, and suddenly let out a sigh of his own. Close to 20 years Fury's junior, Coulson all of a sudden looked all of Fury's age and more. The man had seen a lot in his time before SHIELD – and in his time with the agency since, as much or more than Fury had. And if his friend felt old today, well, he wasn't the only one.

They were both men of action – wanting to solve the world's problems and to hell with any political consequences. The reality of the situation was that, like any other agency, division, service or bureau, the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division couldn't always stop bad shit from happening.

Some days were better than others. Days like today were much, much worse.

Coulson cleared his throat, and Fury snapped back to reality, seeing the question forming in his friend's eyes.

"What do we do now, sir?"

Nick Fury had expected the question – had, in fact, been waiting for Coulson to show up and ask. The problem was, there wasn't a really good answer.

"We wait." Wait for the Security Council to call a conference, wait for the United States government to put the rest of the pieces together. Wait for a war to start that was, after today, more or less inevitable.

And the bitch of the matter was, it probably had been inevitable well before SHIELD had ever gotten its hands on the original information nine months ago. _You can't stop crazy, not when it's that determined. Or that mindless._

"And then?" Behind Coulson's words, Fury heard the impatience. And Fury couldn't help a small, slightly feral grin from crossing his face as he voiced his next thought.

"Then we do what we do best. _We_ fight it."


	2. It's time to begin, isn't it

_**So, more author's notes: First of all, for everyone who favorited or followed the story, thank you so much. The sheer numbers were overwhelming. Second, I will likely be uploading a chapter a week through chapter six or seven. It might get a little longer then, because work is, well, work, and writing for a living means I don't get as much time with fanfic as I would like. I hope you all stick around for the ride, though. :)**_

_**Finally, I will point out this is not slash, won't ever be slash and I hope you can enjoy it for what it is: the start of a lasting, deep friendship between two men who end up being more alike than they know.**_

_**One last note: the site has been kind of grumpy tonight, so I'm trying to delete this and repost it.**_

* * *

_**New York, New York, April 12, 2002**_

Yawning, Phil Coulson snaked out a hand and snagged the cup of coffee sitting on the edge of the computer console. He eyed it warily for a moment, then took a quick gulp, resisting the urge to spit it back out.

Not only was it cold, but a thin, acidic film seemed to have grown in the substance – the result of rewarming the pot he'd taken it from several times in the last few hours. He contemplated leaving to make a fresh pot, then glanced at the clock on the computer screen in front of him and noted the time.

_9:57 p.m._

His agents would be checking in in less than five minutes. Not enough time to make it up to the small kitchen off the intelligence area, start a pot and get a fresh cup. Grimacing, he wondered when caffeine had become a proper substitute for a few hours sleep – and downed the rest of the cup in two long swallows.

His stomach rebelled for a moment, then made peace with the vile stuff. He supposed late-night coffee became inevitable when he was the superior taking reports from their agents in Central Asia – Afghanistan to be specific – and the team in particular he was waiting for.

He didn't have to like it, though. Silently, he hoped that Callahan and Barrett weren't late tonight.

Coulson heard the door slide open, followed by light footsteps, and then someone stop behind him.

"Agent Coulson?" He turned to find a fresh-faced young woman behind him, holding out a large paper cup.

"Compliments of Director Fury, sir." The tone in the woman's voice, and the way she held the cup, made it very clear how she felt about playing errand boy – or rather, girl – for the Director. He accepted the cup, giving her a sympathetic smile.

"Thank you, Agent … Hill, is it?" A fresh influx of new recruits had swamped their training quarters since the events of 9-11, but this woman had caught the eye of just about all of her superiors. With glowing reports highlighting both her skills and her professionalism, Fury – short a personal assistant – had gotten her reassigned as his aide as soon as she'd cleared training.

Still, as she nodded at him, she looked impossibly young, and less than thrilled at being reduced to fetching coffee like a secretary. He smiled again. He knew her job entailed much more than the occasional coffee run, so she could cope.

Besides, it wasn't why the Director had sent her.

"Please give the Director my thanks, and tell him I'll have an update for him in about 15 minutes." Hill gave him a glare that looked like she wanted to roll her eyes at the dismissal, but nodded. She then turned on her heel and stalked off.

Phil fought the urge to chuckle. He knew Fury had sent the coffee as an afterthought – the main purpose of sending Hill was to check on the update from the team in the field. Which, as he glanced at his watch, would be coming in just a few seconds.

The clock on the computer kicked over to an even 10 p.m. He waited patiently, and after about 30 seconds, his cell phone began to ring. The ID came up as "Marco" – Callahan's code name. Barrett was Polo, which the two seemed to get endless amusement out of when they were on base.

Phil tapped his headset to open the line – and also the adjacent recording equipment – but before he could even offer a greeting, the sound of gunfire echoed across the line.

_"Guardian, nova. Do you copy? Nova."_

"Nova" was short for "supernova," which in turn signaled a blown operation – either in terms of an agent's cover or a situation gone completely FUBAR. It was never used lightly, and the tone of voice in which Callahan dropped the code word – confusion and agitation overriding all the professionalism the agent normally exhibited – sent a rush of adrenaline and fear through Phil's veins.

_Fuck. _He dropped down into his chair, typing into the keyboard to pull up a GPS location on his two operatives. He then grabbed the agent at the computer next to him, and mouthed, "Get me Fury."

"Report first, panic later, Marco." The trace had already kicked in, but it would take time. The best thing – _the only thing_, his brain uselessly processed – he could do was run the trace and take the report and pray they caught a break.

"Safe house breached, Guardian." Coulson smacked his palm against the arm of his chair, as more gunfire sounded in the background. Over the top of chatter from gunfire, he heard two voices – one, clearly Barrett's, another shouting something back in Farsi. He heard Callahan drop the phone, and then the sound of more bullets being exchanged.

Then, with a rustle of fabric, his agent was back on the line.

"We're on the run, Guardian. We burned the computers, burned the hard copies. Sent what data we had via my cell. Best we could do."

The sound of automatic gunfire echoed across the line. Several single shots then followed, but Callahan didn't speak again.

Coulson grimaced, then looked at the computer screen in front of him – willing it to run the GPS trace faster. But it would take at least another minute and a half to get a lock, and even if they did, there was no operational support on site. All they could do was use the Director's military connections and hope for some cooperation.

_Dammit. _He'd pushed for the support. _Hard._ He didn't like putting assets in country without backup – no matter how simple the intelligence run. And now, because the damned Security Council had made another call, all he could do was sit here and _listen – _listen and do nothing.

"Guardian, we're cornered." Callahan came back on the line, and Coulson could hear the anger in the man's voice. "We're cornered, between two groups of fucking hostiles in a back alley. Please tell me you have the package."

Phil quickly brought up his email account on the console in front of him, and saw two new emails – neither from Callahan. He closed his eyes, and forced a measure of calm into his voice.

"Roger that, Marco. We're good." Coulson refused to leave Callahan without the one thing he'd asked for – even if Phil had to lie to give it to him. He could feel the bitter bile at the back of his throat. "Now listen to me. I need you to hang up and stow this phone. Try and get it somewhere where they won't look for it, so we can still track your GPS."

Behind him, he heard a door slam open, and then Fury's voice demanding an update. Phil didn't care. Someone else could bring the Director up to speed. Right now, Coulson needed to hear an affirmative from his agent.

When Callahan finally spoke, he could hear, of all things, amusement in the other man's voice.

"Guardian, I know protocols as well as you do." Callahan chuckled softly. "I know you'll do what you can by us, but … no matter what happens, thank you."

Without another word, the line disconnected. Phil dropped his head forward, fighting the sudden urge to pound something – or someone. He closed his eyes, and drew in a deep breath, then let it out shakily.

_Control. _He needed control.

He heard footsteps, and knew the Director had come to stand behind him. Even without turning, he could feel Fury's gaze settling on him, looking for an explanation.

The problem was, Coulson didn't have one. He sighed and spun the chair around to face his boss – and his friend.

"Sir." Phil didn't have a clue where to start. Fury looked at him with a mixture of compassion and confusion, then gestured wildly at the screen.

"Knock off the 'sir,' Phil. What the hell just happened?"

Phil just shook his head, trying to find the words. Five minutes ago, Fury had sent up Agent Hill – and a cup of coffee – as a means of breaking the tedium, as a welcome distraction from the intense yet arcane art of intelligence gathering. Seven months into a new war, SHIELD had dropped operatives literally all over the planet, all in a search for some vital key that would lead to a quick resolution – the slam-dunk the American public wanted in a war.

Now, it looked like they had found something, and then lost it again in the space of a few minutes. How the hell could you explain that?

But as Phil tried to find a way to explain all that, a soft "ping" sounded from the console.

A third new email showed on the screen, stamped from "Marco."

The subject line read: "Package."

* * *

Thirty minutes later, Fury steered Phil into his office, shutting the door tightly behind him.

"I know what you're going to ask me, Phil, and the answer is hell and no." Fury dropped into his chair, and gestured to his agent to do the same.

Instead, Coulson squared his shoulders, and dropped into the SHIELD equivalent of parade rest – his hands holding a folder behind his back, his feet shoulder width apart. Fury watched him settle into the position, then rolled his one working eye.

Just like almost everything else, Coulson could be brilliant at being a pain in the ass.

"Dammit, Phil, you know as well as I do the council won't authorize a rescue mission." Fury leaned into his hands on his desk, trying to hide his frustration – coming up with sarcasm instead. "There are these little things called 'protocols' – you should know, you helped write them for situations like this. A team goes dark, under confirmed circumstances, behind enemy lines? They're on their own."

Fury hated saying the words – hating knowing that Coulson had written that protocol based on agonizing personal experience. Reminding him of the reasons for that particular protocol went against every rule of friendship, but not in dealing with another agent.

So when Coulson just gave a single nod and cracked a smile, Fury felt a flare of annoyance instead of sympathy.

"I know, sir, and that's not what I'm asking." He held up the folder, which Fury knew contained a printout of the data file Callahan had sent. Confused at the change of tactics, all Fury could do was raise his eyebrow. Phil tossed the folder onto the Director's desk, where it slid neatly into Fury's hands.

"I'm requesting you give that to one of your contacts in the White House." Coulson moved to the chair, and placed his hands on the back of it, never taking his eyes off Fury. "Best case scenario, they can get one of the Army units in the area to track this group, maybe even get Callahan and Barrett back for us."

Fury nodded. That he could do. He opened up the folder and glanced at the summary top sheet – hastily pulled together as the technicians in the op room first tracked the GPS on Callahan's cell, then lost it, then worked like hell to reacquire it. As he looked over the report, he let out a low whistle. The group Callahan and Barrett had tracked wasn't confirmed Al Qaeda, but had enough similarities that the U.S. intelligence community could dedicate the resources to mark and track them.

But he didn't play this game hoping for best-case scenarios, and neither did Coulson. He shut the folder, and raised an eyebrow.

"You don't want to stop there, do you..." It wasn't a question, and in response, Coulson's mouth quirked up in a half-smile. "What the hell else do you want, Phil?"

He could see the man hesitate for a moment, and Fury knew a fraction of a second before he spoke what the man was going to ask. Above all, Coulson was a top-notch handler.

"Put me in country. Let me get on the ground, cultivate intelligence and coordinate from there." Fury opened his mouth to say something, but Coulson plowed forward. "The longer we argue, the colder the trail gets. Sir."

Fury fought the urge to snap back at the younger agent. He could call the man Phil, but rarely did the man ever call him anything but "sir." Sometimes it was just a sign of respect. Other times, it became a joke. Times like now, it reminded Fury that Phil knew exactly who was in charge – but also how willing Coulson was to push the boundaries.

Fury sighed. Phil _always_ pushed in situations like this. He saw the people first – and then balanced the human element with the political context. When push came to shove, though, the people came first. He commanded – and demanded – loyalty.

Fury would have it no other way.

"And just what the hell am I supposed to tell the council?"

This time, Coulson's smile grew to a full grin.

"Call it a recruiting trip …_** if **_they ask." The man's smile grew more confident. "What they don't know won't hurt them."

Fury resisted the urge to roll his eye again, and looked down at the file. All things being equal, Coulson had some damned good points – and putting another single agent on the ground wasn't likely to complicate matters too much.

It was what Phil would do once he was on the ground – recruiting on-site help, working with the military and extracting his agents – that would make the members of the Security Council shit their pants if they found out.

Then again, this kind of mission was what Coulson had a habit of making work. And he should've been there to do it to begin with.

That made up Fury's mind. He closed his eye, and waved toward the door.

"Fine. I know nothing. They know nothing. No one knows anything around here. Go." He could practically hear the grin in the man's voice as he answered "yes, sir" and Fury opened his eye to see Coulson already moving toward the door.

"Agent Coulson." Fury went with the formality, and it caught Phil cold. The man stopped in his tracks, and turned, raising an eyebrow in question without saying a word.

"Sir?"

_Again with the 'sir.'_ To hell with it. Fury rolled his eye, smiled sarcastically and flipped his agent – and friend – the bird.

"Make sure the strays you bring home this time are housebroken," Fury huffed out a breath. The man might be the best recruiter in SHIELD, but some things were legendary. "Or at the very least won't scare the instructors off the range. Reynolds is still bitching about being shot in the foot."

Coulson snorted softly. This debate had been circling the drain for years.

"It was a graze, sir."

"Uh-huh. And I'll just let you have that argument with Reynolds." Fury looked up at the ceiling, and flicked his hand at the door. "Now get the hell out of here already."

The door opened and then shut without even a "yes, sir" to mark Coulson by.

* * *

_**18:32 p.m., local time, north of Kandahar, Afghanistan**_

Around the time of twilight in April in Afghanistan, clear evenings provided some of the most gorgeous views of the mountains – especially if unobstructed by buildings, smoke, clouds or other things.

Bitter winter had given way to mild spring, and green had started to replace the dull, drab browns. Rain now past, the last of the sunlight created vistas that even soldiers could appreciate.

Right now, the fourth Ranger Battalion, U.S. Army Rangers, enjoyed none of that. Holed up in a structure that screamed tent merged with hut, the unit listened to the mission briefing with dispassion.

At the back of the room, the unit sniper sat with his feet kicked up on a crate, his right hand idly flicking the safety off – and then on again – on his M-9. Not his weapon of choice, but it was handy in case things went to hell. And the safety gave his fingers something to do while the C.O. bored the shit out of him.

_Click._ Safety off.

_Click._ It went back on.

"I will stress again – confidence is extremely high with this information, but until we can get eyes on the target and confirm the two suspected hostages, you are in observation mode only." The commander, a freshly-minted lieutenant just assigned in the last month, droned on. "You will not fire until you clear it with base."

The man paused for a beat, then spoke a little more loudly – aiming for one person.

"Do you get me, Corporal Barton?" The C.O. glared at the sniper, and in turn, the sniper felt every eye on the tent turn toward him. The scrutiny – in equal parts anticipatory and sympathetic – put his hackles up.

_**Not**_ firing? After the last three missions under this man, Barton wasn't 100 percent he'd fire his weapon even if this asshole _did_ give the order. For a new commander, Maxwell didn't have a problem coming across as trigger-happy.

_Click._ Safety off.

"Sir. Yes, SIR." Barton emphasized the last word with a sarcastic tinge, and just enough of a sneer to let Lieutenant Maxwell know where he rated on Clint's shit-o-meter.

The man's eyes narrowed, and he seemed about ready to respond. Then he drew in a deep breath, and let it out again. He looked back toward the group.

"You're dismissed. Be ready to move out in 30 minutes."

_Click._ The safety went back on. Clint swung his feet off the crate and ducked out the flap of the tent before the rest of his unit had even found their feet. He made his way around the side of the structure, into the equivalent of a canvas alleyway.

The crisp evening air forced him to draw in a deep breath. Calm. He wanted calm. Hell, he needed it. Thinking about anything other than the current issue was all he could afford at the moment, and frankly, all he wanted. He needed that narrow focus.

Instead, a hand landed on his shoulder.

"Well, if it isn't the biggest fuckup on the face of planet Earth." He turned to find his new spotter, Jared Nelson, glowering at him with a superior smirk on his face. "What's with you, Barton? You like having Maxwell permanently pissed off?"

Clint shrugged Nelson's hand off his shoulder, stepping half a step back. Of all of Nelson's annoying qualities – and there were more than a few – his lack of respect for Barton's personal space was one of the worst.

"Man has a corncob the size of Nebraska up his ass."

Nelson scoffed.

"Yeah, and it has your name on it." Nelson smirked, and then gestured at the bruising on Barton's face. "Course, if some of us had our way, that corncob would be past history. Emphasis on _past_, if you catch my drift. Or wasn't that … late-night visit enough to communicate the point?"

Clint stiffened at the words, his heart starting to race as his mind flashing back 48 hours.

_He bucked against the weight on his back, trying to get a foothold, a handhold – hell, any kind of hold. All he got for his efforts was a fist to his face, stunning him back into submission when his right eye exploded with pain._

Slowly, Clint moved closer to Nelson, subtly insinuating himself in the other man's personal space, smirking in an effort to keep his emotions at bay.

"And just how do you know about that?" Nelson held his ground, but Clint's low growl was enough to make Nelson – one of the few people in the unit shorter than the sniper – shrink back into his frame.

Finally, Nelson took a step back, letting off a nervous shrug.

"You know, around." He then squared his shoulders, and spat on the ground. "Sooner or later, Barton, you're gonna have to acknowledge McDermid isn't here to watch your ass, and neither is your precious Collins. And the bitch of it is, it's your own goddamned fault, isn't it? Without them, you do–"

The flair of emotion in Clint's stomach roared out of control at the mention of Collins. In an instant, he had a knee in Nelson's stomach, and then crouched to whisper in the man's ear, grabbing his right hand and twisting his wrist painfully backward.

"You don't get to mention Collins, or McDermid, or what happened. Ever." Clint knew the rage was clear in his voice, and he really didn't care. "You don't have a fucking clue, and you never will. You get me?"

With a slight whimper, Nelson nodded, then muttered something about reporting Barton to Maxwell. By way of response, Clint ground the thumb joint on Nelson's hand outward. Nelson hissed in pain.

"And you won't say a word to anyone." Clint tweaked the thumb back just a bit further to emphasize his point. "Because if you do, I guarantee the little late-night visit I got will be nothing compared to the one I'll visit on you." Clint then leaned into Nelson's ear to whisper the coup de grace.

"Don't you know? I'm the biggest fuckup on planet Earth."

Nelson nodded again – this time with a sense of desperate urgency that would've been comical under different circumstances. Clint finally let go, and Nelson scrambled immediately to his feet and out of the sniper's reach.

First smart thing the asshole had done yet.

"Barton, you're a bastard." Nelson's voice swam with anger, but Clint just smirked back. _God, _he hated the man. Of all the people that had remained unscathed over the last six months in country, Barton wished with everything he had Nelson weren't one of them.

Yeah, and if wishes were horses, he'd get to take his bow on missions instead of his sniper rifle. Clint shook his head, trying to clear it, then glared at Nelson.

"And you're an asshole. Now go get your damned gear and meet me at the motor pool in 15 minutes." Nelson stalked off, but Clint remained still, drawing in deep breaths, struggling to remain calm.

The night air cut through his t-shirt, though, catching the light sweat that had broken out on his skin over the encounter, and Clint shivered. _Goddamnit._ He'd been a loner – hell, had been _alone_ – most of his life. He could count on one hand – and have fingers left over – the people who'd watched out for him growing up. Joining the Army had been less about the supposed brotherhood and more about finding a use for the fact he could hit any target at just about any distance. It was the only place he thought he could possibly fit in.

Then he'd become a Ranger and a sniper – and gained a spotter by the name of Rick Collins. He'd been 10 years Barton's senior, and the man had been the link between Barton and the rest of the unit. When Clint couldn't find a way to co-exist with the rest of the group, Collins had been the reminder that 'loner' didn't mean 'detached,' and that 'sniper' didn't automatically equate to 'bat-shit crazy.'

When they'd finished training, they'd shipped out to Afghanistan, and Collins had made sure the man in charge – one 2nd Lt. Thomas McDermid, U.S. Army – knew how best to use the new sniper he'd been assigned. Collins had shown McDermid how good Clint could be if put in the right situations, and damned if the guy hadn't listened. Collins had respected Clint's moral code, and made sure others respected it as well. And somewhere along the line, he'd become not only a mentor and a protector, but also a friend.

Now he and McDermid and two other guys were dead – because of a stupid prank and an even stupider punishment, because of a faulty radio and sheer dumb fucking bad luck. Into McDermid's spot had stepped Maxwell – and Maxwell forced Nelson into Collins' role. Assigning Nelson as Clint's new spotter had been nothing about a good match and everything about putting someone next to Barton who could and would report back to the new lieutenant.

Clint wanted to run. He wanted to get the fuck out before someone got hurt – before he got someone else killed because people were too busy taking his side or Maxwell's, and forgetting they were all on the _same_ fucking side. He'd pulled further and further back, finding that same self-imposed shell that had existed long before Collins had shown – and hiding safely behind it. To hell with playing cards or drinking or making friends or settling bets. Trust no one, and no one could hurt him. He'd ride it out, finish his tour – and then disappear when he got back to the States.

Or so he'd thought until two nights ago, when he'd landed in the middle of his worst nightmare.

_ "Take a deep breath, asshole. Might be your last." A crackle of noise, and suddenly Clint couldn't breathe. No air, dammit, none, and –_

Clint forced himself back to the present, looking over his shoulder to make sure it no one was behind him. Because it was pretty damned clear he didn't have anyone here left to do it for him, and he needed to survive. A long time ago, he'd learned to trust himself – and no one else. Too much had happened for him to be anything but alone, and that had started long before joining the Army had been even a vague dream.

But as the last of the sunset slipped behind the mountains, even Barton had to admit he'd never felt so alone in his entire life.

* * *

_**21:02 p.m., local time, north of Kandahar, Afghanistan**_

Bone weary and in pain, exhausted to the point of near-collapse, Bart Callahan still almost found the urge to laugh at the absurd irony of the situation.

Stumbling along in the dark, hours of torture behind him and maybe still in front of him – he still felt more alive and aware than he ever had in his life.

Adrenaline did funny things to the human body. Right now, he couldn't decide whether that was a blessing or a curse. Beside him, his partner, Curt Barrett, stumbled along, laboring air in and out of his lungs with a husky-sounding groan underscoring the ragged breathing. Callahan guessed the man had a handful of broken ribs, and some sort of fluid in his chest.

Callahan wasn't much better. He'd been battered for so long that his entire ribcage felt bruised, though he didn't have the same congestion in his lungs that he heard from his partner. His head felt about ready to explode, though, the end result of it being slammed into a wall by an impatient interrogator.

He'd said nothing to compromise the op, and he knew Barrett wouldn't have either. It was the reason both of them were hurting – and also the reason they were still alive. This cell, it had to be Al Qaeda, or at least a first cousin. Callahan had been fairly certain of it when he'd been ready to report in to Coulson and he was even more certain of it now.

After being expertly interrogated, both he and Barrett had been forced into outfits of the same make and color as their captors. Then, the two had been lined up next to various members of the organization until a group of six – roughly matching their body types – had been selected by a tall, swarthy man Callahan had guessed to be their leader.

Then those men had been paired off and given a set of eight guards – and pulled out of the room in groups. Finally, only Callahan and Barrett remained, along with seven men and the leader. Callahan barely had time to shoot his partner a look of confused frustration before both were pushed roughly to the floor.

The leader then threw each of them a rough scarf of brown material.

"Place those around your faces," the man demanded in deeply accented Farsi. "Do so quickly, and you will not be injured further."

Callahan tried hard to figure out just what the hell the man was up to – and thought about it a fraction of a second too long. An elbow, carefully placed and powered, landed in his back, right over his left kidney.

"Do so. _**Now**_." Callahan looked over at Barrett, and nodded. Both men then placed the scarves without any further hesitation, and the man nodded at the men surrounding them.

Then they'd been pulled to their feet and led out of the room where they'd been held since their capture. When they were led outside, and Callahan could see the entire group, comprehension dawned.

They all looked alike, and every group had their own Callahan and Barrett. Any attempted rescue would risk shooting the two hostages as equally as shooting the terrorists.

Since then, they had endured a rocky Jeep ride – one where Callahan had gotten a full view of the trip out of the city and into the desert. They weren't bothering to hide, nor hide from their captives any locations or landmarks. The group clearly had influence in the city, and didn't care what the two agents saw.

Didn't care, because Callahan expected their life expectancy had shrunk to a matter of days – or maybe even hours. Wherever they were headed, they would die there.

Or so their captors expected. Callahan didn't know whether he dared hope for Coulson's promised help. Hell, he didn't even know if the cell phone – securely stashed in a place he prayed these people wouldn't ever search – still worked or not.

Coulson's code name – Guardian – had been born out of the fact that the man made it a personal mission to protect every agent he worked with. Protect, as in break protocols and defy the World Security Council whenever it suited his needs – in short, keeping his agents safe and _alive_. But after stumbling through the foothills into the mountains for the last hour, Callahan knew there were limits.

Beside him, Barrett's foot caught in a depression in the sand, one of hundreds of rivulets created by the spring rains of the last few weeks. Callahan tried to snake a hand out to grab him, but before he could, the terrorists in their little cell closed rank around him, forcing him to continue walking forward.

Behind him, he heard Barrett pulled roughly to his feet, and Callahan realized how hard their captors were working to maintain appearances.

_Are we being watched? _Callahan weighed the possibilities in his head. Coulson could have gotten in country – or he could have gotten word to the right people. If there was surveillance out on them, if they were being tailed, all it might take to break this open could be a quick moment of identification.

_Or the right words._ In the end, Callahan didn't have to even think about taking the gamble. He dragged his left foot in the sand, faked a stumble – and then shouted out at the top of his lungs as he went to his knees.

"We're here! We're Americans and we are captives!"

Behind him, he heard Barrett shout the same, and their captors suddenly exploded – not just into motion, but also shouting, _screaming_. Callahan found himself pulled roughly back to his feet, and then shoved into the center of a large group – the terrorists having converged into one seething mass. Rather than single him out, though, that mass of bodies simply surged forward, almost like a mob moving of its own will, but with terrifying purpose and definition. He tried swerving to the left, and then to the right, anything to break free of the formation, but each time he tried, the guard just collapsed back against him.

Gunfire suddenly erupted – sporadic and seemingly off-target. Callahan couldn't even begin to make out what direction it was coming from, and he heard at least three different weapons chatter out in the darkness. Then he heard shouts, overlapping voices working so hard that he couldn't clearly make out what anyone was saying. All of it was in English, though, and fragments managed to make their way clear of the quagmire.

"—hold your—"

"—dammitall, I told—"

"—keep them in the—"

"—the damned shot!"

As the group surged forward, the area behind them suddenly lit up with flares – tossed in several different directions and accompanied by the sounds of automatic weapons fire.

He couldn't see or hear anything clearly, but suddenly, Callahan was being lifted up and onto the back of a truck, then thrown roughly to the floor. Even as he landed, more people piled in around him, and within a minute, the truck kicked into gear and bounced forward.

Callahan rolled, trying to see where Barrett was. Instead, he found himself looking at the business end of a Glock 17 – aimed at him by none other than the man he guessed was the cell's leader.

The man wore a grim smirk, but said nothing. Callahan eased himself back down to the floor, and admitted defeat. Whatever had just transpired, whoever it had been – if it had been anyone at all – they had failed. He and Barrett were out of sight, and being taken only God knew where.

Callahan wanted to hope. And he wanted to believe. But right now, all he could think was one simple sentence – half prayer, half wry amusement.

_God, Guardian, now would be a real good time for you to live up to your code name._


	3. I'm just the same as I was

_**Author's notes: First of all, my apologies to everyone who reviewed the prologue and never got credit. I acknowledged the favorites and followers and forgot about the reviewers. By the time I realized it Sunday, FF . net was playing holy heck with its servers, and I decided to just thank everyone here – and put up a bonus chapter tonight to boot. **** I hope you enjoy!**_

_**Thanks to the reviewers: Aggie2011, AlphaFlyer and Nonyvole – my normal first ones up. And to the others who have been so supportive – Csurvivor, Galynsolo, Elysynn, Dahlia, angelofjoy, Harm Marie, ****R1dDL3M37h15****, ****Thephoenix1996****, JRBarton, lunarweather, blackdog-lz, shanynde, Elcee, Maxiekat, Hawksicle, FrostonMaples, Zarannya, Hawaiichick and CyanB (and if I missed someone, I'm really sorry!). Like most writers, I live on reviewers, and I'm sorry you all didn't get thanked the first time! Thank you – and, uh, keep it up?**_

**And now, on with the show…**

* * *

_**Somewhere over the Middle East**_

"Dammit!"

Coulson resisted the urge to take the satellite phone he was holding and pitch it into the wall of the Quinjet. He clenched it tight in his hand, though, trying to bring him emotions under control.

He didn't know what he'd expected when he'd handed the file over to Fury. Maybe a part of him had wanted the miracle – Callahan and Barrett waiting for him when he landed. Or maybe he'd just hoped for word that they were alive and relatively safe, if not free.

He hadn't expected to still be in the air, mid-flight, and finding out about a failed rescue attempt. SHIELD jets were fast, but even they couldn't do more than cut a few hours off a twelve-and-a-half hour plane flight.

Roughly eight hours had passed since Callahan had called in, most of which Coulson had spent cooped up in the back of the jet – unable to do anything but coordinate the distribution of the intelligence, get the first reports back from those actions and attempt to get a few hours' sleep. Two hours ago, Fury had called to tell him an Army Ranger unit had been given the green light in the area.

_Hope._ That's what he'd felt. It had calmed him enough that he'd finally managed to doze off, his brain at rest after too many hours of trying to do everything and accomplishing nothing.

And then Fury had called back. His anger and frustration now coming back under control, Phil realized the Director's voice had been echoing out of the phone for the last 30 seconds.

Sighing deeply, he put the phone back to his ear.

"Sorry, sir. I needed a minute."

_"Like hell." _Even over the sat phone connection, Phil could pick up on the man's grim tone_. "I'm just grateful you didn't break the phone."_

"It crossed my mind." Phil leaned back against the headrest of the seat. "Do we know any details?"

_"The Rangers spotted the group leaving a facility in the middle of the city – where we'd tracked Callahan's GPS to, by the way."_ Fury sounded almost triumphant at that. _"Wherever he stowed that phone, it's still transmitting. They followed it out of town under strict orders to observe and report until they had a clear shot. Fifteen minutes later, everyone's emptying clips at these guys. About the only person in the unit not firing, apparently, was the unit's sniper."_

Coulson sat up sharply at that.

"The sniper didn't fire?" That just didn't make any sense. If anyone would've had a clean shot – and a clear view – in that situation, it would be the sniper and his spotter.

_"No, and trust me, I want to know why just as much as you do." _Coulson could hear as much curiosity as frustration in the Director's voice._ "I'm sending the kid's service file to your cell phone. You'll want to give it a read before you get on the ground and head out to the unit."_

"Sir?" Coulson wasn't sure he'd heard that right, not after a mostly sleepless night and having to fight just to get permission to get on the ground in the country.

_ "You heard right. Someone from the unit will meet your plane and take you out to the base." _Fury sounded as tired as Phil felt._ "There's something going on out there, outside of this failed op. An IED took out four members of the unit a month ago, and all hell's broken loose. Your sniper's got a new spotter and a new lieutenant and now a folder full of complaints in the last three weeks."_

Coulson heard a beep on his cell, signaling the arrival of the Director's file. Tucking the satellite phone between his head and his shoulder, and started digging for the phone in his backpack.

"And before that?"

_"Two citations for meritorious service and a nomination for a distinguished service medal. Since being put in the field six months ago."_

Coulson resisted the urge to let out a low whistle. Whoever this kid was, he had talent – and more than a little courage. Even in the middle of a war, that kind of recognition fell under only one label. It was called "conspicuous gallantry" and tended to result in one hell of a soldier, something Coulson remembered from experience – personal and otherwise. The Army didn't let just anyone become a Ranger, which made the sudden change in reports even more baffling. Coulson wanted to be on the ground, meeting this kid.

The silence must have dragged a second too long, because Fury suddenly cleared his throat.

_"Tell me what's on your mind, Phil."_

Coulson thought for a moment, thinking how to phrase what was going through his head.

"Not exactly sure, sir. Maybe … like calling to like." It was more than that, but Fury would figure it out. The Director knew Phil's service record better than his own, had personal experience on just how well Coulson could handle a sniper rifle. One well-placed bullet had kept the Director from losing his other eye, and from there … well, very few people knew all of Agent Phil Coulson's long and winding road through the organization. Not that kept new recruits from speculating, though.

_Guess this is more than a "recruiting" trip now. _Like it had ever been just that. Fury knew that putting his "one good eye" in country would result in some sort of action – preferably the return of his missing agents. He'd left the "what" and the "how" and the "when" up to better people than him, like Coulson.

_Gotta love plausible deniability._

"So, someone's going to meet me." Coulson couldn't help but let a genuine smile crease his face at the implications. "I take it that means the mission parameters have changed?"

He could clearly hear the snort of derision from Fury on the other end.

_"Mission parameters, my ass. If the Council catches wind of this, there's gonna be hell to pay, but right now, I don't give a rat's ass. I'm not leaving good men hanging in the wind."_

Fury never did. And never would. With that one sentence, Coulson could feel some of the tension leave his body. Coulson had pulled Fury's ass out of the fire more than once, and the man continued to return the favor in more ways than Coulson could count. The man bled loyalty – and got it back in return.

Coulson let out a ragged sigh. He'd never doubted Fury would back whatever play he made, but it felt good to hear it anyhow.

"Any new orders…sir?"

_"Yeah. Quit calling me sir."_ Coulson let out a tired chuckle, but the Director went on. _"And try not to get yourself shot, stabbed, maimed or otherwise mutilated this time?"_

Coulson let a full-fledged smirk spread across his face.

"Is that concern I hear, Director?"

_"Hell, no."_ Fury fired back as good as he got. _"If you wind up in the infirmary, it's just more paperwork I'll need to shred later."_

Phil chuckled, and leaned back in the seat. God, he needed some sleep. Now, after listening to everything his friend had said, he might actually get some. He actually felt almost hopeful – and his sense of humor was back.

"I'm sure Agent Hill will appreciate the work." He paused, then added, "Sir."

Fury's laughter rang loud and true. When it stopped, there was a moment of silence.

_"Godspeed, Phil. Bring our boys home. And while you're at it, see what the hell's going on with that sniper. Maybe he'll want to hitch a ride." _Then the Director disconnected the call, leaving his right-hand agent with a smile on his face.

Coulson shook his head, then opened the file on his cell. He'd take a nap – after he read the service file. After punching a few buttons, it appeared on the screen of his phone, and he found himself gazing at a name, rank, and service photo.

The photo was what made Coulson sit up and take notice. No one ever looked good in a service photo. No surprise, really. Military haircuts, uniforms and the expected seriousness could make anyone look severe. But what struck Coulson, after taking in the buzzed blonde hair and the blank face, were Barton's eyes. They were the color of a thunderstorm – caught between blue, gray and a stormy green.

Coulson stared at the photo, trying to wrap his mind around the intensity conveyed in that single photograph – trying to get a grasp on the mind behind those eyes. _There's something there waiting to get out. _The thought rattled through his head, and Phil filed it away for later. Then, after a long moment, he clicked past the photo and into the man's evaluations.

_So, Clint Barton, let's see what you've got to offer…_

* * *

When Phil Coulson stepped off the Quinjet onto the tarmac in Kandahar Air Field, he immediately noticed three things.

One: while two hours sleep wasn't enough and would never BE enough, the short nap had left him remarkably refreshed.

Two: Even though it was midnight in Afghanistan, he was wide awake.

And three: Even though the hour was very late – or depending on your viewpoint, very, very early – apparently it wasn't too late to offer a superior a cup of coffee.

A respectable distance away from the Quinjet, a young private stood next to a camouflage Humvee. He obviously expected the area to be secure and stay secure, because Coulson had seen him climb out of the vehicle while taxiing to a stop, and then reach back in to pull out not one, but two cups of coffee.

But even in the dark, Coulson could see the sturdy Kevlar the young man had on, and the matching helmet. Secured or not, they were still in the middle of a war zone. His own SHIELD-issued vest was secure over his t-shirt, and he slipped the helmet on before warily stepping down out of the jet with his backpack and duffle.

The young man yawned, then held out one of the two cups.

"Sure as hell hope you're Agent Coulson, sir." The teenager – who looked the young side of 18, if that – cracked a small grin. "Hate to be sitting here for two hours waiting for the wrong plane."

Coulson took the proffered cup, and wondered if the Army could manage a decent cup of coffee. He sniffed at it cautiously, then smiled as he picked up the wonderful scent of a healthy brew. He quickly took a sip, and raised an eyebrow.

"Pretty good coffee for there being a war on around here."

The private chuckled.

"Captain Stilling's personal stash, sir. Said if I had to be stuck waiting around all night for a government agent, then I should have some decent coffee." The private, whose tag on the fatigues read "Riley," then gestured to the Humvee and held out a hand. "I have a thermos of the stuff in there, sir, and some homemade cookies, if you'd like to get going?"

Coulson nodded, and handed the youngster his duffel. The backpack would stay safely in his lap for the drive and likely in his immediate presence the entire trip. He could live without the change of clothes and personal items in the go-bag, but the backpack … not so much.

He then nodded at the private.

"Let's go. You're driving."

It took a few minutes to clear the security at the airport, the private showing proper identification and prompting Coulson to dig out his passport and ID. The guards waved them through, warning both of them to keep their helmets on and to duck at any sign of trouble. Riley then took off at a less-than-prudent speed, pushing the transmission of the Humvee as hard as it would go.

"Expecting problems, Private?"

Riley shrugged.

"Around here, sir, better safe than sorry." Coulson slid down a little further in his seat as the private took a corner at a higher speed than Coulson expected, dumping him hard against the door. "Some people see us, they decide we make good target practice. And yes, they should be asleep right now, but let's just say it wouldn't be the first time. Besides, I'd like to get back in my bunk at some point tonight."

Phil smirked. It all sounded eerily familiar, and he wondered just how the hell 15-plus years had passed since he'd been in a uniform and hauling a sniper rifle around the Middle East. Once upon a time, he'd actually been this young, reduced to driving around visiting VIPs when the brass sent someone calling.

Riley dug out a cardboard box and handed it to Coulson, who opened it and found an assortment of sugar, chocolate chip and oatmeal and raisin cookies.

At least, he thought that's what the lumpy ones were. As he looked at them warily and tried to decide if anything actually appealed, the private reached over and snagged one of them from the box.

"My mom's granola and fudge cookies, sir. With macadamia nuts." He took a bit of the cookie, and then grinned around the mouthful. "Beats a Powerbar any day."

Coulson returned the smile, and pulled another of the cookies out of the box.

"I would hope so." He then set the box back on the floor, took a sip of the coffee, and leaned back into seat. Munching at the cookie, he realized just how long it had been since he'd eaten. Coulson finished the cookie in three bites, then reached forward and took another.

While he ate, Riley just drove, keeping his eyes mostly on the road, but occasionally glancing over at his passenger. They drove for about five minutes, the private shooting more and more glances before Phil bit back a smile.

"Why don't you just ask, Private?" The curiosity had to be killing the kid.

Riley shook his head emphatically, looking guilty.

"Not supposed to, sir." The private swallowed, and if possible, blushed redder than he already was. "I know it's not my place, sir."

Coulson took pity on the poor kid.

"Just ask. No ranks, I'm the civilian here."

That got the kid's attention.

"So you're not CID?"

"I'm … from an independent investigative agency." Which was true, as far as it went. It generally got the question answered and enough of the curiosity satisfied to move forward.

Riley just shrugged, then jerked the wheel hard to the right as a thin, black shape skittered into the road. As it vanished out of the headlights, Coulson realized it was a cat. Riley quickly pulled the Humvee back on course, and started talking again.

"You're here about Barton, aren't you?"

"That's part of it, yes." Coulson kept his eye on Riley the entire time, gauging his reactions. When the youngster sat there for a long minute, chewing on his lip continuously, Phil decided to take pity on him.

"Tell me what's on your mind, Riley." The private shot him a sudden, panicked look, as if he'd been caught out doing something he shouldn't have. Then, as his face blushed red, Riley shook his head.

"Barton always tells me I wear my emotions on my sleeve. Guess he's right. He usually is." Riley glanced over at Coulson again, and then put his eyes back on the road. "He's good like that, sir. He reads people pretty damned well."

Coulson nodded. It jived with the personnel evaluations he'd seen in Barton's file. But he wasn't quite sure where Riley's thoughts were. He decided to prod the private and see what he got as a reaction.

"Sounds like a friend – or maybe someone you just don't want to piss off." When Riley didn't say anything, Phil added, "Want to tell me which he is to you?"

Riley swallowed, his gaze flitting over to Phil, then back to the road.

"Depends, sir."

"On?"

"Well, whether anything I say will land me in the same court-martial Barton's headed for."

Phil quirked a grin. He could identify with the paranoia, especially after prior experience as a non-com. The old joke had been paranoia ran inversely with rank – the lower you were ranked, the more convinced you were that the officers were out to get you.

All things be equal, he'd probably be more suspicious if Riley weren't a little paranoid.

"Not why I'm here, Riley." Coulson shrugged a little, then took a long draw out of the cup of coffee. "Why don't you just tell me about Barton? I'll even try to keep questions to a minimum."

Riley hesitated for just a fraction of the second more, then started talking at a rapid-fire pace that convinced Coulson that the kid had just been waiting for an opportunity to convince anyone.

"Sir, you gotta help him. Barton, I mean. I haven't got clue-fucking-one what happened out there last night, but something did – and now it's all over the camp." Riley came up for air, and then plunged forward. "I'm not saying Barton's some damned saint. He can be a real pain in the ass, and more than a little bit scary. He doesn't have a whole lotta friends, but everyone respects him – or did, anyhow. Then that damned IED went off … you know about that, right, sir?"

Coulson nodded. Barton had been out on a night surveillance op, and had missed a scheduled radio check. The unit had rolled out a Humvee to check his position – and somehow discovered an IED planted on the main road in the region. Barton had turned out to be within shouting distance with a dead radio, and had gotten on the scene to find two people already dead and another two dying. Without a radio, the sniper couldn't even call for a med evac, though the report had gone so far as to say both were beyond saving. Among the dead were Barton's C.O. and his spotter.

Coulson watched as Riley's knuckles tightened around the steering wheel.

"Collins … he knew how to handle Barton. Spotter/sniper pairs are normally pretty tight, sir, but Collins somehow … _got_ Barton. Like I said, he's a little scary sometimes, but Collins could manage to make him laugh – or at least shrug off his sniper 'tude when they got back to camp. And McDermid gave them both some leeway, y'know, some room to operate within orders, so long as shit got done and no one got hurt. The two of them were freaky-good, and McDermid knew it. So he just let them do their jobs, y'know?

Coulson _DID_ know. That kind of leeway was what made a good officer.

"When that IED went off …" Riley sucked hard on his lower lip for a second, then hauled in a deep breath. When he started talking again, he ran off at the mouth like Coulson would dare interrupt him.

"It knocked the shit out of the unit." Riley shrugged. "You know how the rumor mill goes, sir – someone said something about Barton not being with the unit, then the next person twisted it, and then it got twisted a little more. Next thing you know, Barton knew the IED was in the road, or set them up, or pulled the surveillance op cuz he was feeling lazy – shit like that. Like Barton would do any of that." Riley shook his head. "Guy doesn't operate that way."

Coulson could see the emotion rising on Riley's face. Easy enough to understand why – scuttlebutt gained momentum even without a crap situation like what had gone down here. Inevitably, someone would get caught in the middle, and it sounded like it had been Barton's turn.

Riley plowed on.

"Then Maxwell got here. The guys split right down the middle on whether Maxwell was the next coming of Christ or an asswipe disguised as a second Lieutenant. The first group hated Barton to begin with. The second is still neutral, but it's hell in the camp right now."

"Where do you fall, Private?"

"We off the record still, sir?"

"Completely." Phil made a point of catching Riley's eye when the youngster looked over, so Riley could see that he meant it. After a moment, Riley swallowed, and continued.

"I'm in the asswipe camp, sir."

Before he could stop it, Phil barked out a laugh, then quickly tried to turn it into a cough. If Riley looked over, though, he'd be able to see the grin threatening to get out of hand on the agent's face. He remembered – especially in times like this – how easy it had been to hate Army life.

Riley cracked a small grin himself, apparently encouraged.

"Well, he is. And how the fuck West Point graduated a little pissant like him is completely beyond any comprehension." Riley sighed, then tapped the brake again as something blew into the road. This time, it looked like nothing more than trash, and Riley tapped the gas to get the Humvee back up to speed.

"Look, whatever Maxwell says, sir … Barton's good people." Riley stopped for a moment, then blushed. He went from an Army private to an embarrassed teenager in less than a second, and Coulson knew whatever was coming, the private really didn't want to be telling this story – but felt the older man needed to hear it.

"Some of the Ranger guys … they take a lot of pride in how badass they can be, sir." Riley's words spilled out with little to no control. "One of them, his name's Harris, decided I flinched a little too much when they went walking around the base, and thought I needed a lesson in toughening up."

Phil frowned. He definitely didn't like where this was going.

"So, Harris got a few of the other Rangers to grab me one night as I was leaving the mess. They dropped a hood over my head, drug me into a supply tent – and proceeded to play Russian roulette with my head and their sniper rifles." Riley's hands tightened around the wheel again. "I nearly pissed my pants before Barton came storming in. Three punches and a mouthful of words I gotta make sure I never say around my mama EVER, and they went running."

Riley sniffled slightly, then finished.

"Barton took the hood off – then grabbed the rifles, checked the chambers, and then showed me they'd been empty all along. Then he untied me and walked me back to my quarters, and told me to stay there for the night." Riley cracked a grin. "Harris, Sanchez and Nelson all showed up for breakfast the next morning walking like they'd been riding my Uncle Sam's broncos all night. Barton walked in a few moments later, and told me to keep a friend around for a few nights, but there shouldn't be any more issues. Then Collins walked in. His eyes went right to those three, and then they went to Barton. Then he ordered Barton the hell out of the mess.

"Next I heard, Barton was on restriction for 24 hours – and Harris, Sanchez and Nelson were getting write-ups in their permanent files."

The edges of Coulson's lips quirked upward, even though he tried to keep his face as placid as he could. Sometimes, the spirit of the law needed to prevail instead of the letter of it – even in the military. He thought back to commendations and citations in Barton's file, and his photographic memory settled on a paragraph Lieutenant McDermid had written.

_"Corporal Barton would have the makings of an officer if he could accept certain methods of approaching a problem are better than others. I'm just as glad that he can't, because I know, if given an objective, he WILL find a way to complete it – no questions asked."_

It seemed like officer speak for Barton taking the shortest solution to the problem – and to hell with appearances and propriety and whatever was politically expedient at the time. Coulson understood it all too well, having written it more than once in a SHIELD evaluation and having resorted to it once upon a time himself.

It also puzzled the crap out of him. Just what the hell had happened in the last month? Had the deaths of his Lieutenant and his spotter hit Barton so hard that he couldn't cope, or was Maxwell so much of an idiot that the sniper just didn't have room to function? All of the above? None of the above?

_I really, really need to meet this kid._

"Sir?" Riley had slowed the vehicle slightly, and Coulson looked over to find the private inspecting him with something less than panic, but more than worry on the young man's face.

Coulson smiled apologetically, and shook his head. He really had been woolgathering.

"I needed a moment to process all that." Coulson carefully took a sip of his coffee, grimacing a little at how quickly it had grown lukewarm. "So Barton backs his buddies, and isn't afraid of stepping out of line to do so."

"No, SIR." Riley's answer was immediate and heartfelt. "Shit just doesn't happen on his watch. Which is what makes last night so damned weird."

Coulson clenched his cup a little tighter as the conversation circled back to the point at hand, and the immediate problem: a sniper that wouldn't shoot – had apparently disobeyed a direct order to do so. It made absolutely no damned sense at all.

He frowned as he looked over at Riley, hoping for a straight answer to this last question.

"Do you know what happened out there, Private?"

Riley just watched the road for a long moment, and Coulson figured he'd worn out his welcome. Finally, though, the private shook his head.

"Not really, sir. Just that the group left with orders not to fire, and then came back a couple of hours later with weapons to clean and Barton in cuffs. Scuttlebutt is he refused the order to fire when Maxwell cleared him to – and that his spotter refused to back him up." Riley slapped the steering wheel with one hand. "They gave him a spotter who, frankly, hates his ass. Maxwell assigned him Nelson – you know, one of those guys I mentioned earlier – and told Barton to 'make it work.' How the hell are you supposed to make something like that work? Barton doesn't trust him."

Given what Coulson had heard so far, he didn't blame Barton for that. A sniper/spotter relationship set its base on trust. But for that to spill over into the field, on a search and rescue mission with lives on the line? It virtually never happened. No wonder Riley was confused.

The private looked over, making sure he'd made his point. He opened his mouth to say something, closed it, then opened it again. Riley's eyes skittered from the road over to Coulson and back, and whatever had gone through his mind, he decided to go ahead and say it.

When he spoke, Coulson could hear the raw confusion. And immediately, the agent knew he needed his mind on this situation first – or else he wouldn't get another shot at Callahan and Barrett.

"We rely on each other, sir. It's like someone decided that Barton wasn't worth the effort anymore, and figured he needed to put up or shut up. Last night was the last straw, and I hope like hell you've got some ideas, because if he stays here, I think someone's gonna end up dead."

Somehow, even though Coulson had yet to meet the 21-year-old face to face, he had the distinct feeling the kid's time here in Afghanistan was almost done. He didn't know if it'd be Barton's choice – or the Army's, or SHIELD's – but it was done. Too much had happened.

In thinking about it, though, Coulson reached one other conclusion. He hoped the kid still had something left to give.

* * *

"…no patience left for any of his bullshit. So, if you're CID, he's yours. If you're not CID, he's still yours. Take him, try his ass and stick him somewhere the world will forget him."

Even if Coulson hadn't been prepared, he would've gotten the distinct impression from talking to Maxwell that the L.T. didn't care much for his sniper. Really, there would be no mistaking the disdain Maxwell had for Barton – even if the Lieutenant hadn't started in with his version of the situation almost before Coulson had dropped into the chair he'd been offered.

Coulson had sat there placidly, only raising an eyebrow here and again when Maxwell looked at him for a response. Finally after about 10 minutes – during which Coulson felt he got no closer to the truth of what had happened the night before, and got increasingly uncomfortable in the flak jacket – the Lieutenant sighed and dropped back into the chair.

"Look, command told me you were coming, but they didn't tell me who you were or anything." Maxwell reached for the cup of coffee on the desk, and chugged it down in two swallows. "All I know is that you were coming to follow up on the information that was given us to track down these two civilians, and you'd hoped have them rescued and waiting for you. As you can see, Barton fucked that up royally."

Coulson tried to keep his irritation in check. After handling Washington politicians for a year and a half, Maxwell shouldn't even be half a challenge. He settled into the chair, and shot the Lieutenant a look of complete confidence.

"I'm here on behalf an independent agency to look into the events of last night." Phil took his hands and folded them placidly into a tent on his chest. "I've spoken with Captain Stilling, and he's assured me your full cooperation. And if you're done, I think it's about time I spoke with your Corporal."

To Coulson's immediate delight, Maxwell's jaw half-dropped, and he stood gaping at the agent for a long moment. It really was too easy sometimes to intimidate others – especially when it came to young, insecure, first-time-in-command West Point grads. This particular one clearly needed some direction he hadn't been getting.

"Fine. Let's go." Maxwell stormed to his feet and then to the door. Coulson shook his head slightly as the Lieutenant had his back turned. _Definitely too easy. _When the Lieutenant stopped at the door and gave him a slight glare, Coulson took his time getting out of the chair, and made a point of straightening his jacket before he followed the man out the door.

About 30 seconds later, Maxwell stopped outside a standard Army-issue tent. Before he entered, though, Maxwell paused, and shot Coulson a look filled with exhaustion and confusion. Given it was about two in the morning, Coulson wanted to cut him a little slack. But when the guy opened his mouth, Coulson went the opposite direction.

"I haven't got clue one how to deal with him." That much had been obvious to Coulson before he'd even stepped foot in country, but Maxwell went on. "West Point doesn't teach you this shit."

Coulson fought to keep his voice even. Riley was right: how the hell West Point had graduated this idiot and sent him into a war zone was beyond him. The man clearly didn't lead; he just followed the book and expected people to drop in behind him.

"That's why West Point is supposed to teach you to think for yourselves." Not content to see Maxwell's jaw drop, he added, "At least, I assume you have a functioning brain."

Coulson then grabbed the tent flap and ducked inside before Maxwell could even think about framing an answer. It took his eyes a few seconds to adjust from the dark to the bright light in the tent, but when they did, what he saw shocked the hell out of him.

He'd expected to see Barton seated on a chair or a cot, under an armed guard. Instead, he found the kid with one arm handcuffed to the tent's center pole. The way he was cuffed didn't give him much room to shift, but somehow, the soldier had maneuvered himself so he was straddling the chair, leaning comfortably into the back of the seat. Even in the dim light, Coulson could see bruises and cuts on the Barton's face – eerily offset by the smirk he wore. The expected armed guard stood a few feet away, his arms crossed and gun holstered.

Barton gave a finger wave as Maxwell ducked in behind the agent.

"Hey, L.T. Thanks for allowing me a visitor." Coulson watched as the youngster – his face belying his 21 years – shifted his glance from the Lieutenant to Phil, then sized him up from top to bottom and then back again. Barton tipped his head to the side and glared at Coulson, but the agent didn't flinch.

If Barton wanted to try and intimidate him – or size him up, or whatever was going through his head – Coulson could deal with it. He squared his shoulders, locked eyes with Barton, and let the kid see the small grin that Coulson summoned every time he needed control of a situation.

By way of greeting, all he said was, "Corporal Barton."

Barton had clearly expected a different reaction. His head snapped back a little, and Coulson heard an audible, "Huh." Then Barton looked beyond him.

"So, SIR," and Coulson picked up immediately on the level of sarcasm being leveled on the young Lieutenant, "decided to get CID involved? Didn't know they cared that much about bad conduct discharges."

Maxwell started to say something, but Coulson cut him off. He wanted to handle this conversation.

"I'm not CID."

So help him, the kid actually rolled his eyes.

"Oh. My. GOD. " With his one free hand, the teenager managed a credible facepalm. "Seriously, that's what you're going with? 'I'm not CID'? Is that your FINAL answer?" The voice slid into a mock British accent in a split second. "You ARE the weakest link. Goodbye!"

For a long moment, Coulson found himself completely, totally at a loss. Maxwell barked at the Corporal to "show some goddamned respect," but Barton only leaned into the chair and smirked.

Coulson watched the whole exchange play out, and then the only thing he could think of flew out of his mouth before he could stop it.

"Well, I'm not."

And the bitch of the matter was, it was the absolute truth, no matter what the damned kid believed.

* * *

_**Author's note: No actual recipe for Riley's cookies exists yet. Yes, I've been asked.**_


	4. Now don't you understand

_**Author's notes: First of all, a huge shout-out to all of the reviewers and followers and favorites. The response for this story continues to grow, and it's both gratifying and humbling. I do want to warn people that once chapter six is posted, I may be a little sporadic in posting, as the story isn't finished. But I'm working hard, six is almost done, seven, eight and nine are started and the whole thing is plotted, sooooo…**_

_**And as a writer, I'm working with the fact Barton is left-handed, since everything I've seen indicates such. Oh, and to all the people who like Riley – he will be appearing more in this story. And, can anyone tell me the song I'm using for this story? Hint: check the chapter titles. :)**_

* * *

It took Coulson all of three questions – and the corresponding off-the-cuff, smartass non-answers from Barton – to realize he would get absolutely nothing accomplished with Maxwell in the tent.

Behind him, Maxwell snarled.

"Barton, so help me God, unless you start cooperating…" The Lieutenant let the threat trail off, which Coulson suspected meant Maxwell had nothing effective to threaten the sniper with as opposed to any desire to play mind games with the other man.

Barton reached the same conclusion about the same time, and smirked.

"What, L.T.?" Barton's tone was at once sarcastic and playful. "Send me to bed without dinner? Take away my toys? Put me in a corner for a timeout? Because something tells me – and feel free to correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think I am – you aren't really in charge anymore. Or else you'd be asking the questions and not," Barton flicked a thumb at Coulson, "HIM."

Coulson stared back impassively, and bit back a sigh. Just how, exactly, had he lost control of this situation? The simple answer was: he hadn't. Maxwell had allowed Barton to manipulate the situation until it fell to his advantage.

That meant Maxwell needed to leave, _now_. Coulson crossed his arms, and glared at Maxwell, who, after a long second, finally took his eyes off Barton and looked up at him.

"Lieutenant, I'd like to speak to the Corporal alone, please." Maxwell just looked at him, his jaw slack with a 'Are you shitting me?' look. By way of answer, Coulson simply leaned his head toward the tent flap.

"Now, if you don't mind. If I recall, I was promised your full cooperation." Coulson normally would've tried a more tactful route, but the Lieutenant had reached past the limits of the agent's patience before they'd even stepped into the tent.

_No wonder Barton's got a folder full of reprimands._ The Corporal had the ability to wind up his superior like a cheap toy – and knew it. Now Coulson needed to find out if there was anything left worth salvaging under that heavy layer of sarcasm, something that could help him find his agents and get the hell out of here.

Maxwell opened his mouth to protest, then seemed to think better of it. He stalked out the door, muttering at Coulson that he'd be in his office if the agent needed anything else. He gestured for the guard to follow him, and after a moment's hesitation – and glance of concern toward Barton – followed his commanding officer out.

For a long moment, silence reigned. Then Barton chuckled.

"Nice trick, sir. Can we keep you around?"

Coulson ignored the jibe. Instead, he stepped closer, inside what he hoped was Barton's personal space. He wanted the kid on edge – and off balance. Barton's smirk gradually faded as Coulson edged closer, and disappeared completely when Coulson walked a slow circle around him.

Throughout that walk, Barton's eyes never left him. Coulson made sure the sniper saw his face as he pulled over a crate and sat down. Coulson leaned over, bracing his elbows on his knees – and then resting his chin on his hands. He never once broke eye contact, and he could see the confusion boiling in the kid's eyes.

So when Phil finally spoke, he made sure every word counted.

"You know, I can't quite figure you out, Corporal." Coulson's voice was pitched low, calm and emotionless. He may not be CID, but he had years of practice in getting beyond the masks most people wore. All it took was the right motivation – and right now, Coulson was damned well motivated. He had to be.

_So show me what you've got, Barton. Show me you can fire off more than your mouth._

"You're talented." Coulson waited until he saw the small spark of pride in the youngster's eyes, then pushed forward. "Your evaluations, up until the last month anyhow, make you sound like the next coming of Christ. You're good at what you do – at least, you were until a few weeks ago."

A flash of anger sparked in Barton's eyes as they narrowed, and Coulson resisted the urge to smile. He wanted the anger. It might be the only way he got past this current façade – the bullshit Barton had clearly adopted to deal with the chaos around him.

So, he leaned in a little closer, and tilted his head slightly to the side.

"Or maybe you aren't. Good at your job, that is." Barton recoiled just a fraction of an inch, closed his eyes – and proceeded to stun the hell out of Coulson by not responding. Instead, the kid just drew several breaths in and out, all ragged with emotion and clearly executed as a measure of self-control.

Dammit, he didn't have time for this. He had two agents whose lives fucking depended on whatever this kid could tell him, and he needed answers. Now.

Coulson tapped his fingers lightly on his knee and waited until Barton opened his eyes again. Then the agent took a deep breath, and went in hard for the kill, saying a silent prayer that this wouldn't blow up in his face.

"How else do you explain a sniper who doesn't fire a single shot in the middle of a search and rescue operation?"

Coulson had been prepared for more anger. He'd been prepared to see Barton lose control, to _react_ instead of _act_, to be rash and out of control. Given the opportunity, Coulson could turn that back at the sniper and use it to his advantage.

What floored him instead was the look of intense look of shame that flitted across the sniper's face, only to disappear behind a snarl as the kid pulled angrily at his restraints. The words that followed were so harsh – so unexpectedly bitter – that it was Coulson who pulled away.

"You haven't got CLUE. FUCKING. ONE. How to explain me."

* * *

"Or maybe you aren't. Good at your job, that is."

Clint Barton couldn't help it when he flinched away. This guy – with his civilian cargo pants, a flak jacket over a t-shirt, his semi-receding hairline and his small, almost imperceptible grin – seemed determined to push every button he had, like he wanted Clint to push back. Like all he wanted was to see how Clint reacted, and dammit, Clint didn't operate that way. He needed to step back, see things from a distance – and then figure out how to react.

Instead, he was handcuffed to a damned tent pole, being questioned by God only knew who, with absolutely no one and nothing left to trust. He closed his eyes, and tried to just breathe, tried to focus on that and force out everything else that had turned his life into a living hell.

It didn't work.

_"Barton, report." Barton's earpiece crackled to life with the sound of Maxwell's voice. The bastard had been monitoring all their radio traffic for the past hour, micromanaging from the rear guard. "Confirm all terrorists, no captives."_

_ Barton shook his head. They'd tracked the cell all the way to the foothills of the mountain range, but when they shifted from vehicles to foot power through a narrow gap, reports came back of 32 terrorists and no obvious prisoners. Barton had even done his own head count, and confirmed it._

_ Intelligence had sworn the captives were with this group, going so far as to cite a GPS tracking beacon and giving Maxwell its frequency. Something in the equation just didn't add up. Had the terrorists killed the captives and left their bodies somewhere in the city? Had the terrorists divided their manpower and gone in separate directions, taking the GPS the Rangers were supposedly tracking in one direction and the two hostages in another? Was the damned GPS still even tracking?_

_ What the hell didn't add up?_

Clint hauled in a shuddery breath, and then opened his eyes. The other man just sat there, regarding him with a look of curiosity.

"How else do you explain a sniper who doesn't fire a single shot in the middle of a search and rescue operation?"

Clint felt his stomach drop through his feet, and his heart take off. _Fuck._ He knew his emotions were now clear to see – clear to this man who'd been prodding him for that very purpose – and he just didn't care anymore. He'd spent the last several hours trying to reconcile what he'd seen with his orders, and he'd spent the last month trying to watch his own back because every other person seemingly wanted to put a knife in it.

Nothing added up anymore, least of all last night or this asshole sitting in front of him_. _He went to jab a single-finger gesture, not trusting his voice– and belatedly remembered the handcuffs as his right wrist jammed painfully into the restraints.

To hell with it.

"You haven't got CLUE. FUCKING. ONE. How to explain me." Barton jerked hard against the cuff as he spat out each word, almost welcoming the pain. The physical pain he could deal with. The frustration, the confusion – hell, the fear that had become almost second nature to him over the last month – boiled over as he surged to his feet.

"To hell with you, Mr. …" And suddenly it dawned on Clint he didn't even know the man's name. He hissed a breath out through his teeth. "Whoever the fuck you are. And to hell with – "

In the space of a second, the man surged up from the crate he had parked himself on, and took hold of Clint's free hand. A millisecond later, his left shoulder screamed in protest as the man jammed Clint's arm up and behind him, turning Barton and planting his face against the tent pole.

"Listen to me, Corporal. Out in that desert out there are two men I am charged with protecting. It's a job I take seriously, and in order to do that job right now, I need to know what you saw last night." Amazingly, the man's volume and tone had remained infuriating calm, even as he ratcheted Clint's arm further. "I need the information you have, and frankly, I'm tired of listening to you wind up your Lieutenant like a cheap toy mouse and then attempt to do the same with me. Do you understand?"

The man's grip kept him pressed tight up against the pole, his cheek close enough to catch slivers from the wood as he nodded. The answer seemed to placate his captor, though, as the grip on his arm loosened. Clint pulled his arm free and turned to throw a punch – and the next thing he knew, he was pinned back up against the pole, Mr. 'I'm not CID''s arm tight under his chin, his still-neutral expression an inch from Clint's.

"I'd advise against trying that again, unless you want me to get Maxwell back in here." Something flashed in the man's eyes, and Clint felt the urge to shy away. Instead, the grip under his throat tightened enough that his vision started going grey as the man spoke again.

"I hear waterboarding isn't nearly as much fun as Ranger training makes it out to be."

If this guy thought Ranger training made it fun, he had another thing coming. But the point was made, and Clint just nodded as he tried to pull in a breath and calm the hell down. It didn't come easily, not with the man's arm jacked up against his windpipe, putting oxygen at a premium.

_Calm. Just calm the fuck down._

Apparently, his acquiescence was enough for now. The arm under his throat dropped, and then, amazingly, Mr. Secret Agent guy was guiding him back to his chair, making sure he didn't fall flat on his face.

When it was clear Clint wasn't about to collapse – the consideration all but blowing Clint away, especially given he'd been about 10 seconds from blacking out – the man sat back down on the crate, looked at him for a long moment – and nodded. The corners of the guy's mouth quirked upward, and Clint could only gape as the man actually extended a hand – his right so Clint could shake it without pulling at the cuffs again – in greeting.

"Agent Phil Coulson. Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division."

Clint raised an eyebrow, then smirked. There was definitely a working, processing brain under this guy's slick exterior, something professional that had him sitting up a little straighter and looking at him with a little different view. When he caught a good look into Coulson's eyes, that was when it struck him. There was a challenge there, a glint of humor and goodwill and perhaps some good-old fashioned decency to boot. Maybe – he wasn't sure, but just maybe – this Coulson deserved a little bit better than the smartass shit he'd been dishing out so far.

_Especially if those two civilians were still caught out in the dark._ That was the reason they'd been out there – going after two guys who would otherwise be tortured or killed. If they were still alive … making up his mind, Clint leveled his gaze with the agent, then nodded and took the offered hand.

"Quite a mouthful you've got there, sir. How do you fit it on a business card?

Across from him, Coulson leaned back in the chair, and sighed.

"We're working on it. Now, if you wouldn't mind cutting the bullshit and explaining what happened last night?"

* * *

An hour and a half later, Phil Coulson had answers.

Not just answers, but detailed responses to a succinct set of questions – all given with a minimum of snark from Barton. He'd pulled out a small notebook and pen from his cargo pants and started to sketch out notes. Barton had muttered something darkly under his breath when that happened – Coulson thought it sounded suspiciously like, "Not CID, my ass…" – but had continued to answer the questions he'd been posed.

What was more – Barton actually took the time to make sure what Coulson had written down actually made sense. A few times, Barton had actually asked for the notebook and pen, crossed out what Coulson had written – then given clarifying remarks in the margin. He'd even asked Coulson for a map and shown him just how far the Ranger unit had followed the terrorists, where they'd engaged the enemy, and where the Rangers suspected was the group's base of operations.

He'd asked questions, and Barton had answered. If he hadn't known better – with several psych reviews to the contrary in the sniper's file, the usual for a soldier taking trips through different Army specialties – he would've started to suspect some sort of split personality. He suspected that the cooperation came from a far simpler source. Given what was on the line – and Coulson had no doubt the kid had read him correctly when he'd made it clear whose job it was to protect the missing agents – Barton legitimately wanted to help.

Which was what made the whole situation so damned bizarre – and the next question he had to ask so hard. He'd gotten the kid to tell him the where, when and who, but hadn't asked about the "why" of the situation – and frankly, he didn't really know how to phrase the question. He'd pushed Barton earlier on the issue, wanting him pissed off and angry so they could get past the sarcasm. It had worked – to a degree. But he'd hit a sensitive spot, one that told him there was more to this than the sniper just disobeying orders to piss off his superior.

It wasn't just about his agents now. He had enough information to go after them. The real question was, with no assets in country, who the hell was going to help him.

Barton looked at him for a long moment, then rolled his eyes.

"If you don't mind, _sir_," and damned if the kid didn't make that last word sound like a mockery of every form of authority on the planet, "just ask already. It's got to be at least 3 a.m., and no offense, but I haven't slept in close to 24 hours."

Coulson raised an eyebrow slowly, not at all surprised that Barton had grown impatient enough to finally push the issue. Coulson glanced at his watch. 3:32 a.m. That didn't surprise him either. The coffee had long since worn thin. Barton was right – he had to get to the point.

"You're a sniper, Barton. You're trained to be in the best position to make a difference, and from what you told me, I'm not seeing a problem there." Coulson waited for Barton to nod in confirmation. For a long moment, he watched emotions flit across the kid's face – again, that flash of shame – before the kid finally nodded, schooling his face back into a dispassionate mask.

_What the hell?_ Coulson sighed, then finally just asked what he'd wanted to know since Fury had called him 10 hours ago.

"You were cleared to fire. So why the hell were you the only one NOT firing a weapon?

Barton's reply was immediate, and any pretense of calm was again gone.

"Because I don't miss!" Barton surged to his feet, his eyes stormy with emotion, already opening his mouth to continue making his case. But as he brought his hands up to gesture – Phil thought he saw him start to close them together to measure a distance – his right hand jerked hard against the handcuff binding the sniper to the tent pole.

"Goddamnit!" Barton's right arm dropped back down as his face flushed with pain. Then he reared back and clenched his left fist, preparing to take aim at the pole.

By then, Coulson had found his feet as well. In a second, he was at Barton's side, grabbing the kid's hand before he could do any permanent damage.

"Stop." Barton looked about ready to mutiny and punch him instead of the pole, but after a long moment, he dropped his head, nodding once without looking at Coulson as his shoulders sagged. Barton leaned against the pole with his free hand, heaving air in and out of his lungs as he clearly tried to regain control of his emotions.

Watching Barton working so damned hard to rein in the exhaustion and frustration, it didn't take Coulson long to reach an easy decision. A little trust could go a long way right now, and something in the back of his head hollered that the kid needed a break – from _someone, _maybe_ anyone_. He reached into his cargo pants and pulled out a set of lock picks he always kept handy. A few seconds later, the cuff binding Barton's right wrist popped free.

His hand falling out of the cuff, Barton's head snapped up in surprise, even as Coulson took to the cuff around the pole and popped that one just as quickly. Pocketing the cuffs, he looked up to find the kid staring at him, pained disbelief in his eyes.

"I didn't ask you to do that." Barton rubbed at his now-bruised wrist, wincing. "Why?"  
"I don't expect you to take off, and I'm tired of watching you jam your wrist around." Coulson kept his eyes level and his face blank as he reached into his hip pocket, and pulled the cuffs back out, even as he sat back down on the crate. "I can put them back on if you'd like."

Barton glowered at him and rolled his eyes. After a long moment, though, Barton dropped back down in the chair with a muttered, "I'd like to see you try." Still rubbing his wrist, he looked back over at Coulson, who was stunned by what he now saw in the kid's face.

Gratitude.

"Thank you." Barton sighed loudly, and leaned back in the chair. "And like I said, I don't miss."

Coulson blinked at the non-sequitur, then frowned slightly at the explanation as it sunk in.

"Everyone misses at some point."

"I don't." Barton was insistent. "I'm pretty sure you've seen my service file, so you know I can back that statement up. I've missed exactly two shots in the last six months. One was the first week I was here, when a goddamned bird managed to fly into the line of fire. I put the guy down with the next shot. And one at long distance in a fucking sandstorm we never should've been out in two weeks ago. I don't miss, and definitely not at the distance we were at last night. So I wasn't about to fire and hit a civilian."

Coulson felt his head snap up at attention at that last sentence.

"What do you mean? Maxwell said –" As soon as those words were out of his mouth, Coulson knew he'd erred. And he knew Barton knew, because the sniper's face settled into a cross between a snarl and an unamused smirk.

"And you consider him a reliable source of information why?" The smirk faded, and Coulson could see the derision on Barton's face. "That man couldn't shoot his shit into the latrine sitting down, and –"

Phil held up a hand.

"I'll concede the point, so move on."

The gesture stopped Barton's rant in his tracks, and he blinked. The sniper just stared at him for a moment, trying to figure out the ruse in Coulson's words. Phil finally rolled his eyes.

"I'm not blind." He tapped the map again. "Move. ON."

"Right." Barton shook his head, then pointed at the map. "Your scale, sir, is in five-mile increments, so understand that when those two marks I made are right on top of each other, that means we were pretty much right on top of them. At least within a half mile, maybe closer. Close enough to see things pretty clear, almost close enough to hear them talk."

Barton chewed on his lower lip for a moment, then continued.

"Maxwell cleared us in, cleared me to fire. Right after he confirmed that there were no civilians. Civilians we were told were THERE, sir, but that we couldn't see, because everyone was dressed the same." Barton shook his head. "I wanted an extra minute to think, to figure it out, but he tried to rush me. Told me to listen to his goddamned order and take the damned shot. I didn't like it, so I held off."

Coulson blinked.

"And he put you in hack for that?"

Barton shook his head.

"No, though the mood he was in, that probably would've been enough. Especially since my spotter had told him we were all clear." The sour look that crossed Barton's face made it clear what he thought of _that_. "Right about the time he started screaming in my ear, I saw motion on the ground. Happened fast, but it looked like someone stumbled. Next thing I knew, there was a flurry of activity, and then someone shouted."

"Shouted what?"

That look of shame flitted across Barton's face again.

"It kind of got lost in the shuffle down there. But I know I heard the word 'Americans,' and it wasn't an accent from around here." Barton's face grew stony. "That was enough for me. I backed off the shot, and shouted across the mic that there were civies in the middle of that mess. Some guys got a couple of shots off, but most everyone pulled up. I don't think we hit anyone."

Americans. Coulson felt his stomach relax for the first time in hours. Standard hostage procedure in any situation where you felt a rescue was imminent – identify yourself and try to hit the deck. Hell, Coulson had drilled that protocol into Barrett and Callahan himself before they'd left on this assignment. If Barton was right…Coulson shook his head, partly in disbelief, but mostly in relief.

_They could still be alive._

"You had confirmed friendlies in the area, with no way of distinguishing them from the enemy."

"Well, no, not if you're listening to my spotter." Barton looked away, disgusted. "When we got back here, Nelson told Maxwell he hadn't heard a damned thing."

Coulson could hear the bitterness in the kid's voice now, and he plowed forward, knowing instinctively that Barton wasn't bullshitting him.

"I'm not asking them, Barton." He made sure the sniper had looked up before he continued, and then made damned sure the kid could see the trust he had in him. "I'm asking you."

Barton hesitated. He looked anguished for a moment, and Phil realized with startling clarity that, whatever the hell else had happened out here in the last month, the kid had been force-fed self-doubt – long enough to be questioning everything that had happened. The kid didn't question his skills, but someone had pushed long enough and hard enough to make him question his _judgment_.

No matter how you tried to couch it, that was just wrong. Maxwell would be finding a new job before Coulson had even left the country – the agent would make sure of that. Phil didn't say anything, though, just waited for Barton to reach his own conclusion. When he spoke, though, it confirmed his own thought process.

The damned kid was shaken.

"I heard 'Americans.' It sounded like someone yelling for help." Barton's voice had a note of a plea in it. "And then all of a sudden, everyone moved. Started yelling. I could see everything, but I couldn't figure out who'd shouted." Barton shook his head, his face a cross between anger and nausea. "Sir, I don't MISS. What if … if I'd taken the damned shot, I could've hit THEM. I couldn't take that chance."

Coulson sat back, stunned. He wasn't sure who Barton was trying to convince – himself or the agent. Either way, he didn't need to try. He'd done the right thing.

"Based on your information, and then what the spotter told him, Maxwell still cleared you to shoot." It wasn't a question, and Barton didn't take it as one.

"He listened to Nelson. Not me."

Coulson sighed. They were back to Maxwell again, and Phil had already reached his conclusion about the man. But he still had to ask, had to confirm what he already suspected.

"Other than your attitude, Barton," and damned if the kid didn't roll his eyes at that, "does Maxwell have any good reason to hate you like he obviously does?"

Barton looked down and away, but before he did, he caught that look of shame cross Barton's face again. It made the anger curdle in Phil's stomach.

"Well, I'm not exactly what you'd call part of the in crowd around here, sir – or hadn't you figured that out yet?" Barton tried to hide the question behind his sarcasm, but this time, Phil wasn't ready to let him do it.

"He's a Lieutenant in the U.S. Army, Barton. He's supposed to know how to lead everyone – not just the people he likes." Coulson shook his head, putting the pieces together in his head. Barton had been accepted – even liked – by his former spotter and Lieutenant. Both of them got killed, and into the whole stewpot of emotions had stepped Maxwell.

The man didn't deserve to be commanding a forward unit. Hell, he probably didn't deserve to be running a supply depot. Coulson wondered, half-seriously, if he could effectively disguise a bullet to Maxwell's brain as enemy fire.

"Sir?" Barton's voice drew him out of his thoughts, and Coulson shook his head, reaching a decision as he did and pushing himself to his feet.  
"It's Coulson, Barton. Quit calling me sir." In his head, Coulson could almost hear Fury snickering at the line. "And let's go. We're getting out of here."

"We?" Barton's jaw dropped slightly.

"Yes, 'we.'" Coulson quirked a small grin. "Unless you'd like to sit here and test out my waterboarding theory."

To his credit, Barton found his feet almost immediately, a sincere smile crossing the young man's features for the first time.

"I don't think so." But rather than moving toward the tent flap, Barton pulled up suddenly, clearly listening to something. Phil followed his lead, and in the resulting silence, heard a muttered curse.

Maxwell. Coulson wondered irately how long the man had been listening. He raised an eyebrow at Barton, who simply shrugged.

"Whole time, probably." Barton pitched his voice low. "I could hear his feet kicking sand at the tent. It's like a nervous tic with the guy."

Coulson fought the urge to chuckle, unreasonably impressed by Barton's skill at reading the Lieutenant. Glancing at his watch, Phil blamed that giddiness on the hour – and at the prospect of getting his agents back.

He looked over at Barton again, appraising him slowly. This time, the kid stood a little taller, a little more confidence evident in his posture. When Coulson continued watching him, though, the kid finally snapped.

"What?"

Coulson gestured at the tent.

"You heard the sand hitting the tent." Coulson didn't even bother keeping his voice down. The more Maxwell heard of this, the better. A little humility might go a long way with the man, though Phil sincerely doubted it.

Barton just shrugged.

"So?"

Coulson gestured at the wind that had picked up outside. Nothing heavy yet, just an evening breeze to cool the desert ground. It was enough, though, to have kicked up any amount of the small particles and hurl them against the canvas.

"Could've been the wind." In fact, that was what Coulson's mind had identified it – and dismissed it – as within moments of first hearing it.

Barton snorted softly.

"Not that side of the tent, sir. Wind doesn't swirl much here. It's been blowing through the tent."

Coulson stared at Barton for a long moment after that, weighing just how to say what had crossed his mind at the explanation. Barton just stood there and waited, whatever sniper skills he'd developed sitting in his nests clearly at war with the emotions on his face.

Finally, Phil decided to just point out the obvious.

"You heard that – and yet, you're doubting you heard one of my men calling – SHOUTING – for help." He watched as the implication of the statement worked its way through Barton's head, seeing just a little more confusion melt away – a little more self-confidence taking its place.

Coulson let it sink in, then tapped the kid on the shoulder.

"Let's go. We've got work to do."


	5. That I'm never changing

_**Author's Note: The feedback from everyone has been so unbelievably gratifying, I can't even begin to tell you. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, everyone who has favorite'ed the story and to everyone following this. It means so much to know people are enjoying the story! I love reviews, so feel free to keep sending them. :)**_

_**And good news! Chapter six is finished, and I'll be onto seven once I am off deadline at work on Wednesday. We're getting there!**_

* * *

Clint leaned back in the passenger seat of the Humvee Agent Coulson had commandeered from the motor pool, grateful to have his wrists free from the cuffs yet again. It had been close to 5 a.m. by the time they'd gotten out of the camp, only to have Coulson tell them they still needed to drive back into the city to what he termed a "secondary safe house."

Right now, Clint didn't care if it was accommodations in West Hell. He just wanted to shut his eyes and somehow get to sleep before the sun actually slipped back over the horizon. Coulson had promised him at least a short nap once they'd gotten where they were going.

After the last 24 hours, he was beyond overjoyed at the chance to simply be horizontal for a little while. It was more than just exhaustion. He felt like the entire fabric of his universe had begun to unravel – in spite of the vibes of confidence coming from Coulson.

As they'd walked out of the tent, Maxwell had recovered enough to come running around from the side of the tent.

_"Just where the hell do you think you're going with my soldier?" Maxwell's face looked downright comical. The man had flushed bright red, and looked angrier than Clint had ever seen him. Coulson's hand tightened around Clint's bicep, and he turned to see the warning glare from the man._

_ Like that would stop him._

_ "Sir!" Clint pulled himself up to a rough sketch of attention, giving Maxwell his biggest, goofiest grin, making a mockery of the salute that followed. "Wonderful news, huh? I'm no longer your problem. Has to feel good, huh?"_

_ Maxwell's jaw dropped, and then, with no warning, the man swung at Clint's jaw, taking the punch Clint knew the man had probably wanted to throw within an hour of meeting him. Just as he moved to duck, though, Coulson stepped between them and swung his arm upward in a block. The man didn't even wince when Maxwell's punch – all the frustration of four weeks of Barton's bullshit toward the man behind it, no doubt – ricocheted off his arm._

_ "Calm down, Lieutenant." Clint managed to mostly swallow back the laugh that threatened to escape from his throat. What he didn't, Coulson glared into silence. The man had super-secret agent coolness in everything he did. He'd have to remember to point that out later, once he and Clint were outside of Maxwell's firing range – verbally and otherwise._

_ Coulson made sure Maxwell didn't have any more punches in him, then reached into his pocket. He pulled out a business card, looked it over quickly, and then handed it to the Lieutenant._

_ "That says I have the authority to do what I want with Corporal Barton. If you have any questions, call that number. You should have an answer within a few hours, at most." The agent then leveled a glare at the Lieutenant that almost made Barton wince._

_ "And he's not your soldier anymore. He's been released to my custody." He nodded over at the motor pool. "We'll be needing a driver to take us back to Kandahar proper. Any complaints, please take it up with whoever you speak to at that number."_

_ With that, Coulson turned neatly on the heel of his shoe, secured his grip around Barton's arm and stalked off._

_ Barton resisted the urge to look back over his shoulder at Maxwell, then snickered. As he opened his mouth to say something about Coulson's antics, the man stopped short. With no warning, he pulled Clint's arms up behind him, and then retrieved the cuffs from his pocket._

_ When they snapped closed around his wrists, Barton noted with annoyance that they were tighter than before – almost cutting off the circulation to his hands. He glared at the smaller man._

_ "That really necessary?"_

_ Coulson rolled his eyes, then propelled Clint forward._

_ "Show me where you bunk. And consider yourself lucky if I let you pack your own bag after that stunt." _

Contrary to the irritation in the agent's voice, he had popped the cuffs as soon as they'd entered the bunk area. Not wanting to push his luck, Barton had thrown everything he could technically take with him – which amounted to a handful of personal belongings and two changes of civilian clothes, plus the bow and quiver he hadn't used since the explosion a month ago – and hightailed it out of there.

Coulson had eyed the bow with curiosity, but hadn't said a word. He'd just started walking toward the motor pool, expecting Clint to follow. Coulson had recognized someone there immediately and summoned him over to drive them, then had climbed in the back seat and closed his eyes. He'd been silent ever since.

So had Clint, who'd never wanted anything more than a life in the Army since about the age of 10. He'd worked his ass off in high school in spite of what others called "an unfortunate home situation" – what he simply called life as a runaway with the added side bonus of performing in a circus. But he'd made it through, with flying colors, and hadn't looked back. Basic training, Ranger training … it was nothing compared to the shit he'd dealt with as a teen. He'd gotten his chance – and he'd excelled at every challenge he'd been set.

And then McDermid and Collins both died and Maxwell had turned life as he knew it into a living, breathing hell. He'd just about lost all hope before Coulson had marched into the MP tent this morning.

And just what the hell was up with that man, anyhow?

The Humvee bounced to a rough stop in a deserted street on the outskirts of the city, jarring Clint out of his reflections. Clint looked up to find them in front of a small, one-story building – one with no windows and just a single, dead-bolted metal door on the front.

"This where you wanted to be, sir?" The driver – Private Riley, Clint had noted, thankful Coulson had managed to find someone that didn't want to kick his ass – sounded doubtful.

"Yes. Barton, let's go." Pulling his pack from the back seat, Coulson had moved several steps toward the building before Clint's brain caught up to the fact that they were, in fact, where they belonged. He quickly snagged his bag and his bow and quiver from the floor of the vehicle, and opened the door.

Riley caught his arm as he exited.

"Barton – is he," and Riley angled a thumb toward Coulson, who'd already reached the door, "good people?" Riley looked at him like he could actually stop this from happening if Barton answered 'no.' It was damned hard not to like Riley – even if his heart got ahead of his brain half the time. He'd earned the 18-year-old's loyalty by saving his ass three months ago, and Riley seemed determined to return the favor.

Barton cracked a smile, feeling his body relax a little as he realized the answer.

"Yeah, Riley. I think he's OK." Barton shouldered his duffle, then gave Riley the most authoritative look he could manage. "You watch your ass back there, OK? I'm hoping it'll get better now."

"Yes, sir." Riley's face broke out in an easy smile, something that happened more often than not. "You be careful, too."

"Will do." Barton cleared the door and slammed it shut, then hauled his ass over to the door, where Coulson had been watching him with an impatient eye. Shaking his head, the man held up the padlock.

"Let's head in."

Clint paused, making sure the man saw his skepticism as he looked the building up and down.

"Doesn't look like much." In response, the agent reached inside and flipped a switch. As overhead fluorescent lights kicked slowly to life, Barton got his first real glimpse at what the agent had termed the "secondary safe house." He knew his jaw had dropped open, but right then, he really didn't care.

Beside him, Coulson let out a brief, low chuckle.

"That's the point, actually."

* * *

If there was one thing SHIELD's secondary safe house in Kandahar was designed to do, it would be to underwhelm a person.

From the outside, it looked nothing more than a deserted storehouse, padlocked against intruders with no roof access, no windows and no readily-apparent second entrance. That there actually was one – located in the floor of the building, leading to an underground tunnel that spilled out a half-mile away in a weather-beaten garage – seemed to shock the hell out of the few agents that ever found out about its existence.

As for the security, well … dead men told no tales, especially in the middle of a war zone where there seemed to be a body a day with no explanation. Video surveillance kept the need for body disposal at a minimum, though, and Phil had been glad to see no one had appeared to trigger any of the hidden measures as he approached the one-story building.

One less thing to take care of once they got inside. Deciding he'd given Barton enough time to get over the initial shock, Phil shouldered his pack with a sigh and walked inside, gesturing for Barton to follow. As soon as they were both inside, Coulson closed the door and threw the deadbolt. Once it slammed home, he keyed in a passcode on the pad next to the door and verified the code with a thumb scan.

Barton watched the whole rigmarole, his jaw still hanging slightly. He then gestured first at the door, and then widened the sweep of his hand to apply to the whole room.

"Nice resources." Coulson let a small smile cross his face at the compliment. He was damned proud of these secondary sites. Each of their major intelligence areas had a cache like this – a 10-meter-by-six-meter storehouse, divided into sections, with backup computers and weapons, supplies and a living area. Barton hadn't taken his eyes off the weapons' quarter yet, and Phil could understand why. There were enough firearms and ammunition in that one corner to supply a small army – or at least, a handful of agents fighting a small army.

He'd have to let Barton loose over there later. But for now, there were more pressing issues.

"You can only see half of it. _Please_ don't try opening that door again without my help." Coulson sighed, then headed toward the back right corner – the place the two would be calling home for now. It held a pair of bunk beds, a small kitchen area, a work table and, best of all, a bathroom and shower with running water. Barton followed without saying a word, and the agent couldn't help but feel a little relief at the trust the kid was showing – or, perhaps, the willingness to trust, at least for the moment. After the last month Barton had endured in his unit, anything would probably seem like an improvement.

When they reached the back wall, Barton took in the crates – which served as a wall between the bunk bed and the table and chairs – then turned back toward Coulson. Rather than say a word, he just raised an eyebrow, waiting for direction.

The bruises on Barton's face, which he'd first noticed in the tent, stood out starkly in the fluorescent lighting, and he could see the exhaustion lines on the kid's face. Not for the first time, he realized he needed to get more answers from Barton – ones that addressed more than just the incident the previous night, ones that he hoped would shed light on what had happened since Maxwell had taken over. He'd taken Barton out of the unit because he needed the help in getting his agent back, but he had hopes for more – MUCH more.

Nothing that couldn't wait until Barton had a few hours of sleep, though. Coulson knew, more than anything, that they both needed some shuteye, some food and fluids and a good plan before they acted on any of Barton's intelligence.

Phil gestured toward the bunks, even as he turned toward the table and dropped the backpack onto it.

"Grab a shower, then get some sleep. We'll talk once you get some rest behind you." With his back to the kid, he heard – rather than felt – the hesitation.

"Uh, Coulson…" Phil turned at the sound of his name, seeing the confusion on the kid's face. "I thought you had two agents to rescue."

Coulson nodded.

"I do. But neither of us is any good to them dead on our feet, storming the fort in broad daylight." Barton still looked doubtful, but he finally nodded at the reasoning. Coulson looked down at his watch, registering the time. "It's about 5:30, sun's coming up. How much sleep you normally get on base?"

"If we're lucky, six hours. But I can run on two."

Coulson thought for a moment, weighing the options. He'd need to sketch out a plan on approaching the base, plus get a shower and some sleep of his own, and brief the Director. With sunset falling about quarter after six, he could spare Barton more than two hours.

"Split the difference. I'll wake you up in four hours." Coulson waved a hand in the direction of the bathroom. "Take a shower first, though. There should be enough water in the tanks for a real one."

Barton nodded, and disappeared around the corner. A second later, he heard Barton's gear drop onto the bunk, the sound of the soldier digging through his duffle, and footsteps moving toward the bathroom. The door closed, and a few moments later, Coulson heard the sound of running water.

He smiled, angling over to the shelving unit, where he retrieved two bottles of water. He walked over and tossed one on the lower bunk, then went back to the table and dropped into the chair. Pulling the notebook and map out of his pants pocket, he let out a long, ragged sigh, and reached into the backpack and pulled out a laptop. He got it booting, and flipped open the notebook, taking in not just his notes, but the added notations Barton had made in the margins. The pieces of information started to coalesce into the start of an operational plan, and Phil nodded to himself.

He could do this. He _had_ to do this.

There just wasn't any other way.

* * *

_Less than a week into boot camp, Clint had learned one inescapable truth of being in the Army – if you didn't sleep when you could, perverse little men called "drill sergeants" would make sure you lived to regret it. He'd sworn they could smell exhaustion, homing in on it like a hungry vulture tracking a dying animal in the desert._

_ So he'd done what he could to create a barrier against the outside world. The blanket over him – and the pillow under his head – gave him the illusion of privacy, the chance to tune out everything around him. Normally, from there it was just a few short minutes until he drifted off. _

_ Tonight, well, not so much. The sand whipped around outside the tent, a late-day sandstorm having rolled in and not let up since. All evening operations had been cancelled, and Maxwell had sent everyone to their bunks like an insane parody of a housemother, telling them all to "rest up, because tomorrow'll be a bitch." Three hours later, some of the guys were still playing cards on the back-most bunk, though their voices had dropped out of consideration for the guys who were trying to sleep._

_ Clint let out a soft sigh. He really, really wished he was one of them. Right now, sleep had fled along with any semblance of sanity within the unit. His back had been up for the last three weeks, and after the shit last night with that kid and the supposed IED, he felt like no one had his back._

_ God, the eyes on that kid…it was like –_

_ A hand ripped the blanket off of Barton, then grabbed Clint's right arm, and jacked it up behind him, just as another set of hands grabbed him and flipped him over on the bunk. Before he could even shout a curse, a soft wad of fabric got shoved in his mouth – so far back he almost gagged on the material._

_**What the FUCK?**_

_ He bucked against the weight on his back, trying to get a foothold, a handhold – hell, any kind of hold. All he got for his efforts was a fist to his face, stunning him back into submission when his right eye exploded with pain. As he dropped back down to the bunk, someone's knee ground into the small of his back – then an arm snaked up around his throat._

_"Take a deep breath, asshole. Might be your last."_

_ He couldn't – there wasn't any AIR, and he couldn't __**breathe**__ – a hand tightened around his shoulder._

_ "Barton…" No air, __**dammit**__, and then hands yanked a bag over his damned head, he couldn't –_

_ "_BARTON!" Jolting upright, Barton would have smacked his head into the bottom of the bunk above him if not for an arm coming across his chest. Instinctively, he grabbed the arm and pulled – HARD. Even as he pulled, he scrambled backward with his feet, getting leverage enough to put the attacker onto his chest and Barton in control.

Then his brain caught up with his body. Instinct had told him to protect himself. His brain now informed him he had Agent Coulson pinned to the bed, knee in the man's back, the agent's right arm pinned behind him in a submission hold.

_Shit._

Confused and embarrassed, Clint let go of the agent's arm, and climbed quickly to his feet, backing away from the bunk and putting the wall behind him, trying to let the chill of the concrete block seep into his overheated skin.

Coulson rolled off his stomach and into a seated position. The agent rotated his shoulder around in its socket, then pulled it across his body to stretch it. It finally released with an audible pop, and Coulson stretched his neck for a second before finally looking up at Barton.

"I need to know if that's going to be a daily occurrence."

"The nightmare – or the takedown?" The retort was off Barton's tongue before he even had a chance to think about it. He winced, and opened his mouth to apologize, but Coulson raised an eyebrow, and then waved him off.

"Either. Both." Then the agent just sat there and waited. Clint was shocked to see no accusation, no anger, no _judgment_ – just a calm acceptance of what had happened and the searching look of someone wanting an honest answer.

Coulson kept surprising him, throwing him off balance, keeping the landscape shifting underneath his feet. Clint couldn't tell if it was a conscious effort – if the agent took pleasure in screwing with him – or if he honestly cared enough to ask. Frustrated, Clint leaned his head back against the wall, and closed his eyes.

_"Take a deep breath, asshole." _How the hell could he tell someone – a person he barely knew and definitely wasn't sure he could trust – just how well and truly screwed he would've been if those two agents hadn't gone missing, if Coulson hadn't shown up with a dire need for the information Clint could offer.

_"Might be your last." _Clint shivered.

"Barton." Coulson's quietly insistent voice pulled him back to the present, and Clint opened his eyes to find the agent had gotten to his feet and moved a step toward him. When it became clear Clint was paying attention again, the agent nodded once in his direction.

"I'm not asking what they're about." A definite note of wry humor crept into Coulson's voice. "I just need to know if my personal safety is at risk every time I come to wake you up."

That Barton could deal with. He shook his head.

"If I'm having a nightmare, don't bother trying. I'll be awake in a few minutes anyhow." Clint sighed, then smirked. "Well, not unless you like being put on the ground before your first cup of coffee."

One side of Coulson's mouth quirked upward.

"Not especially. But so we are clear, I didn't fight you." Coulson got his feet, his face still irritatingly calm as he shed his jacket – revealing a Glock in a shoulder harness, and a knife in a hand-stitched leather sheathe. Clint felt his jaw drop slightly as he realized how easily the situation could have escalated if he'd gotten a hand on one of Coulson's weapons – and shivered at the thought of what could have happened.

"Situational awareness." Clint knew he was still staring when Coulson shook his head, and then rolled his eyes slightly. "You weren't aware, and I didn't want a situation. Sometimes it's better not to fight, Barton."

Coulson let the works sink in for a minute, then shrugged the jacket back onto his shoulders.

"Though, it does answer my question on whether your hand-to-hand skills are up for what I've got planned." Coulson turned and walked out of the bunk area, gesturing over his hand for Clint to follow him.

"Follow me. You and I need to talk."

* * *

A half hour later, Coulson could only watch with amusement as Barton started in on his third MRE. Barton's jaw had dropped open when Coulson had told him to help himself to whatever appealed in the box of pre-prepared meals – and again when Coulson had provided a sterno heater and a mess kit to heat whatever he chose. Barton stared for a long moment, then muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "unbelievable" and began pulling items out of the box.

Five minutes later, he'd had beef teriyaki warmed. Ten minutes after that, it was chicken tetrazzini. This time, it was beef ravioli – dug into with a kind of relish that had Coulson wondering how long it had been since Barton had enjoyed a hot meal. He pushed himself to his feet to refill his coffee mug, and frowned at the near-empty pot. Between himself and Barton, they'd done a pretty good job of demolishing it. With a sigh, he dumped what was left into his mug, then pulled a gallon jug of water over to start another pot.

When he could hear the drip machine start gurgling, he turned around to find Barton watching him – finally finished eating. The 21-year-old had started building a small house out of the sugar and creamer packets, smirking over the top of the design when he realized Coulson was watching.

Coulson raised an eyebrow, then moved back to his chair. When he sat down at the table, he made sure to set the mug down hard enough to topple the six-inch-high tower. So help him God, Barton actually stuck out his lower lip in a pout – then started to move the creamer packets back to rebuild the base of his initial design.

Phil picked up a spoon, reached out and rapped Barton's knuckles with it. The sniper hissed as he pulled his hand away from his building supplies, and then shook his head.

"You could've just asked me to stop, you know."

"Would you have listened?"

"Eh." Barton shrugged. "Maybe?"

Rather than answer, Coulson simply leaned back in his chair and stared at Barton. For about a minute, the kid returned the stare with a smartass grin on his face. Then Barton bit his lip in frustration.

"Anyone ever tell you staring like that is kind of creepy, Coulson?" When Phil's only answer was to cross his arms and continue staring, Barton rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.

"Fine. What did you want to talk about?"

Phil reached over and turned the laptop around so Barton could see the operational notes he'd typed out. He knew when Barton started reading them, because the kid's eyes flickered from his face to the screen, and then narrowed as he began scanning the document. Idly, Phil wondered how long it would take for Barton to recognize what was missing – and to call him on it.

It took the better part of five minutes, as Barton appeared to read through the whole document. He frowned, then scrolled back up to the top and read it through a second time. When he seemed convinced he hadn't missed something, he turned his attention from the screen to Phil – and glared.

"What the hell is this?"

"An operational plan to get my agents back." Phil kept his voice calm, and let his face betray nothing. "I take it you don't approve?"

Again, Barton rolled his eyes.

"No, I 'don't approve,'" Barton said, making air quotes as he spoke. "You used all of the information I gave you, but you're not going to use ME. What the hell did you bring me along for if you weren't going to let me help?"

Coulson's deadpan reply spilled off his tongue before he could stop it.

"I need a porter for the trip in and out." Barton's eyes widened, and he went slightly slack-jawed. A moment later, he pushed the laptop away from him in disgust, and moved to get up from the table.

"Barton! Sit down." The kid stood anyhow, but made no effort to move away. Instead, he glared – the frustration clear on his face.

"Are you purposely _screwing_ with me, Coulson?" Coulson caught the emotion in Barton's voice, a note of desperation and something else – something that screamed for Coulson to notice it and take heed. "Because I've had about all I can take of being SCREWED with. Something tells me you already know that, so cut the shit and tell me what you're thinking, or I'll take my chances being a fucking street rat in Kandahar!"

"Fine." Coulson knew he had Barton's complete attention now, and he plowed right into the heart of the matter. He'd thought out this speech three hours ago. "I'm not screwing with you, Barton. I'm trying to figure out just what the hell's going through your head." He paused, then reached out and pulled the laptop back over. A few clicks later, Barton's service file appeared on the screen. He then turned the computer back to Barton.

"THAT tells me you've got talent. It tells me you had at least two men in your corner, willing to back your every move. It tells me you're one hell of a sniper, with a record most snipers only dream of having." Coulson dropped the volume a notch, letting an edge creep into his voice.

"And then Collins and McDermid die – and everything goes to hell. You liked them. I get that. You're grieving, and I get that, too. Your new Lieutenant can't stand you, fine. That's on him. But what about the rest of the unit? What happened that everyone polarized into either for you or against you? What the hell am I missing?"

Barton turned away from him, and for a long moment, Coulson thought he'd pushed too hard, and that Barton would shut him out completely. But Barton's hands closed on top of the crate he was facing, and the younger man hunched his shoulders and dropped his head. Ragged, deep breaths followed, and Coulson watched as the kid – still so damned young in so many ways – fought to bring his emotions back under control.

It took a minute, but Barton's breathing slowly evened out. When he finally spoke, Coulson almost missed it – the kid's voice so low and intense, it bordered on a whisper. He definitely couldn't pick up the words, but just as he opened his mouth to ask Barton to repeat it, he turned back around.

The shame and anguish that fought for supremacy on Barton's face tore at Phil's heart.

"I wasn't there. I wasn't there – and I should've been." Slowly, Barton walked back to the chair, and dropped into heavily into it.

"They're dead, and I'm not. And no one could deal with that – least of all me."

* * *

As Clint dropped back into the chair, he wondered why he was bothering. He'd spoken the absolute truth. And not only couldn't he deal with the situation at hand, he was tired of trying. Tired of trying to deal with not only his own shit, but whatever else anyone decided to throw at him simply for the hell of it.

He was guilty as hell over this, and he knew it. How the hell were you supposed to live with the fact that other people died and you lived – simply because you were a total fuck-up?

_"Barton, I should toss your ass in the brig for that little stunt." McDermid's voice, normally infuriatingly calm and reasonable, rose in frustration. "You're a goddamned Army sniper, not some reject from Robin Hood or William Tell!"_

_ Barton made a point of studying his shoes. He supposed McDermid had a point, even if it had been harmless fun – mostly – and no one had stood a chance in hell of getting hurt._

_ "You're damned all lucky I need your ass in the field!"_

Across from him, Coulson rapped the table with his knuckles, clearly to get Barton's attention. He didn't know how long he'd been lost in thought, but the look on the agent's face made it clear Barton was stretching his patience.

"You were out on a surveillance op. The radio failed. Explain to me how that was your fault." _Fuck._ Clearly, Coulson had already heard at least part of this, though from who, Barton wasn't sure. It could've been any number of people – from Maxwell to the base captain. He desperately wanted to ask just who the hell had been talking, but he didn't trust himself with the question, or with the possibility of giving up too much information. He needed the out Coulson had offered him by pulling him off the base – not another enemy.

Going for a partial truth, he raised an eyebrow at the man.

"Ever worked on a forward base before? When you're not fighting, people talk. We haven't done a whole hell of a lot of fighting lately, so trust me, they've talked."

Coulson nodded, then seemed to consider something.

"Private Riley didn't seem to blame you."

When the hell had Riley … Clint narrowed his eyes at the man across from him as realization dawned on him. It hadn't been coincidence that Coulson had chosen a driver whom Clint could trust. It was a good 45-minute drive from Kandahar Air Field to the Ranger base. How much of that time had Coulson spent prying answers out of the damned kid?

And just what the hell had he told Coulson?

"Riley talks too damned much." Clint shook his head. "And he's got a hero-worship thing going on. Not to mention the fact he wants to find the good in just about every damned person on the base. You really gonna listen to what he says?"

Amazingly, Coulson smiled.

"Actually, I have so far. He said you saved his ass, Barton, and he called you … what was it?" Coulson paused a moment, searching for words. "Right. He called you, 'Good people.'"

This time, Clint actually snorted.

"Good people." Clint dropped his head into his hands, feeling the frustration welling up in him. The all-too-familiar guilt and grief he'd been trying to channel into something productive for the last four weeks – to try and balance the scales, to clean out his ledger, so to speak – couldn't, _wouldn't_ allow him to accept that kind of compliment.

_Good people._ The kid didn't know the meaning of the word.

Suddenly, Coulson smacked the table. The sudden noise made Clint's head snap upward so suddenly, he actually heard the vertebrae in his neck pop off like rice krispies.

Clint's eyes narrowed at the glint in Coulson's eyes. He'd seen it before – first from Collins, and then from McDermid. That glint meant one thing: shut the fuck up and LISTEN.

"Barton, I'm not your counselor, your chaplain or even your boss. I shouldn't have to tell you this, but I guess I do." Coulson heaved a sigh. "Radios fail. IEDs go off. You're in a damned war zone. People die. You may feel responsible, but you are not. So I need you to shelve those issues and move past it."

Clint fought the slight surge of panic in his stomach. Move past it? _God._ If it were only that simple.

Across from him, Coulson pushed to his feet, and walked over to the coffee machine with his mug in hand. He took a good minute to pour the cup, add creamer and sugar, then precisely stir the mixture.

Finally, he turned back around, and Clint found himself on the receiving end of the man's penetrating stare yet again. After a long moment, Coulson gestured toward the laptop with his coffee mug.

"There's a second plan on there, Barton – one that uses both of our skills." Coulson took a sip of coffee, then grimaced and put it back down next to the coffee pot. He then crossed his arms. "Because, yes, I do intend to use you. I need to use your skills if I want to have any chance of getting my agents back alive."

Coulson paused, maybe to give Clint a chance to digest that, then plowed forward.

"But once we're finished here, I have a decision to make." Coulson gestured again toward the laptop. "That profile tells me I have a chance to recruit an agent into our agency who could very well be one of the best assets we've ever brought in – or the worst, depending on whether or not your head is still screwed on straight after everything that's happened over here. So, Barton, you tell me: is it?"

Clint just blinked at the man. Of all the questions Coulson could've asked him, that was the last one he'd expected to have to answer – and the one he damned well didn't have an answer to right now. After the last month, he really didn't know whether his head was screwed on facing front or facing back. Everyone else seemed to have an opinion the matter, but Clint hadn't stopped to think about it.

Hell, did it even matter anymore what he thought? Clint almost shook his head, then stopped himself. Coulson was watching him too closely, looking for his reactions as much as his answer. Clint closed his eyes, thinking back to a month ago – to the last time he'd been thinking clearly and hadn't been hurting. He thought about Collins' absolute belief in his ability, and about McDermid's acceptance of Barton being Barton. He let himself rewind the clock a little and just exist.

When he did, he knew how to answer Coulson's question.

"I don't know, but I want the chance to find out." Clint pitched his voice low, but steady, injecting every ounce of confidence he could find. "I want to find out what I can do."

Coulson stared back for a long moment, weighing the answer, then nodded once.

"Fine." He walked over, turned the laptop around on the table, and typed a few commands. Then he spun the laptop back around to Barton, tapping the top of the screen with a finger.

"Read that. Familiarize yourself with it. If you have any questions, write them down." Coulson waved a hand in the vague direction of the notebook and pen that were sitting, abandoned, on the table. "I'm going to go grab a nap. I'm setting an alarm, so you shouldn't have to wake me, but if you have to, fine."

The man moved to walk over to the bunk, and Clint looked down at the laptop, ready to start reading. Then Coulson paused, and cleared his throat. Clint looked up to see a small smile on the agent's face.

"And Barton? Welcome aboard."


	6. So this is where you fell

_**Author's notes: First of all, to everyone who guessed the source of the chapter titles, you're correct. I love that song, and it seemed appropriate for this. Second, to everyone who hopped on board after Aggie steered you over here in Milestone Nine ... WOW. You all shocked me with your approval. Thank you so much. And for everyone who reviewed, followed, or favorite'ed, THANK YOU!**_

_**Just a bit of warning here: things are about to get rough. Please heed warning involved with the rating of this story from here on out if you're sensitive. I think it's worth the ride, but you may not.**_

* * *

_**Outside Kandahar, roughly 11:50 p.m. local time**_

Looking through the scope of the Remington 700 sniper rifle he had procured from the SHIELD safe house – the civilian alternative to his M-24 – Clint resisted the urge to stroke the barrel in appreciation. Coulson had given him the pick of the firearms in the place, and the Remington had practically sung to him. Clearly, someone had made sure the safe house had clean, well-treated – hell, practically pampered – weapons, and this had been an easy choice. It wasn't even factory new, which spoke to some prior action, and also, a well-trained sniper who knew how to break down the weapon and clean it afterward.

Add in the H&K sidearm he'd pulled, and he felt better protected than he had even in the Army. SHIELD didn't seem to skimp on much, and it definitely didn't skimp on its firearms.

Now settled into his sniper's nest – about 50 feet about and 100 yards out from the enemy camp – he keyed open his mic.

"All right, sir, I'm in position." Barton grinned, pulling away from the scope for a moment and eyeing the camp below. He had the bird's eye view he craved, and just that simple fact calmed him. He was in control. "Clear view of the camp, night scope up and working."

_"Roger that, Hawkeye."_ Coulson's voice echoed through the piece, a slight electronic whine making its way across the line. _"Still skirting the perimeter. Wait for my orders."_

Barton sighed, making sure Coulson could hear it across the line.

"About those orders, sir… I want to go on record that parts of this plan just suck." He resumed looking through the scope, trying to pick up Coulson's approach. "You're treating me like a trained dog."

_"That implies you could actually be trained, Hawkeye." _Coulson's sardonic humor came through loud and clear, even if the transmission crackled. _"When you've shown me you can plan missions as well as you shoot a sniper rifle, then I'll let you weigh in."_

There was a short pause, and Coulson continued, Clint could practically hear the smirk over the comm.

_ "In the meantime, it wouldn't hurt you to learn the commands 'sit' and 'stay.'"_

Clint snorted softly.

"Yeah, just don't expect me to roll over, 'Guardian.'" He'd decided earlier in the day he would match sarcasm for sarcasm with the agent, who might have a terrific poker face, but also seemed to own a brutal dry wit. "And who thinks up these stupid-ass codenames, anyhow?"

Coulson's retort was immediate, and, Barton suspected, planned.

_"Well, you picked yours. How about you tell me?"_

Clint contemplated his answer for a minute. On one hand, he'd never been embarrassed by his teenage years, and the name had seemed natural when he first started shooting his bow. Eyes like a hawk and all that crap. On the other hand, no one – and that included the Army and the various psychologists in its employ – really knew what he'd been doing as a teenager.

As a whole, he'd rather keep it that way. So, time to compromise.

"Old nickname." Even though no one could see him, Clint shrugged. "That way you know I'll come when called."

Something sounding suspiciously like a snicker ghosted over the comm line, and Clint smirked. But when Coulson spoke a second later, he was all business.

_"I'll be in position in 30 seconds_." Clint knew where Coulson was – about half a mile away, at the base of another ridge that rose up over the camp. What had been a suspected, approximate position on Clint's map turned into an exact set of coordinates when Coulson had tracked his agent's GPS – which was, amazingly, still transmitting. The agent had then called in a favor with a wizened informant that Clint had doubts could even see the road, but owned a dilapidated pick-up truck to drive them to the base of the foothills about five miles from Clint's old camp. Coulson had slipped the man a wad of cash and what looked like a burn phone, and told him they'd be in touch for the return trip – in Pushtu so perfected that Clint couldn't even pick up an American accent.

They'd walked in from there. The terrorists may have felt comfortable using truck transport in the foothills, but Clint – and as it turned out, Coulson – didn't feel like driving into an ambush. Walking kept the noise to a minimum and gave them more places to hide. About a half mile from the camp, they'd split, each heading toward pre-arranged coordinates. Clint liked the plan well enough, so long as it went off without a hitch. If it didn't, things were going to get messy in a way the sniper knew Coulson wouldn't appreciate.

_"In position."_ Coulson's voice came back over the line, all business. _"Let's review the plan one last time. What time does your watch say?"_

Clint almost snickered. Had Coulson set that up on purpose? Either way, he couldn't let the line go.

"It's a WATCH, 'Guardian.'" Clint made sure to put the emphasis on the agent's codename. "It doesn't SAY anything. But if you're asking me what time it READS, 11:56 p.m."

Silence reigned for a long moment before Clint heard a beleaguered sigh.

_"I realize this might be asking the impossible, but could you possibly keep the conversation to mission relevant only?"_

This time, Clint DID snicker.

"I will, when we're on mission, Guardian. Right now, we're REVIEWING." When he heard nothing but silence that droned on for a good 30 seconds, Clint finally swallowed back the smile. "Sir, yes, SIR. You wanted me to review?"

_"Please."_ Something between annoyance and exasperation was clear in the man's voice.

"Well, I stay up here and snipe whatever moves, and give you reports on any activity in the compound. You go in and find your agents. Then we all bug out. If anything goes wrong, you want me to make a run for it and use the priority code you made me memorize earlier." It was that last bit that had Clint pissed off. There was a reason Army Rangers had a creed, and Clint had already failed it once.

He'd sworn he'd never fail it again – whether Agent Coulson liked it or not. Never mind that they'd established a fallback point, one stocked with extra packs of medical supplies and other essentials in case of a problem. Clint didn't need a fallback point. He didn't _want_ to need it.

After a long moment, Coulson finally responded.

_"I'm fully aware of your objections to that portion of the plan."_ Clint knew that Coulson knew – they'd gone in circles on it for a half hour earlier before Coulson offered to return him to his unit posthaste. Clint had rolled his eyes – if it looked like and felt like an empty threat, it probably was – and answered with what he was about to rattle off.

"Sir, YES, sir." He could practically hear the agent's irritation through the line when he answered back.

_"Listen to me, Ba—Hawkeye. I've got experience in one-on-impossible situations. This isn't __**my **__first rodeo. If something goes belly-up, I need to know you'll follow orders."_ Coulson's voice screamed irritation, but also a weariness Clint knew was due to the situation. _"This isn't your unit, I'm not Maxwell – and if something goes that seriously wrong, you do NOT need to be tied to an intelligence-gathering operation in the middle of a war zone."_

Clint bit back a frustrated sigh, and rolled his eyes. What did Coulson want him to do – lie to him?

"Roger that, Guardian. Guess we hope nothing goes wrong." He left it at that, and hoped Coulson wouldn't push him further. Besides, it wasn't a bad plan – provided neither of Coulson's agents was seriously injured. If they were, a lot more variables got factored into the equation – ones that Coulson had planned for in excruciating detail, and drilled into Barton's head like elementary school multiplication tables.

Clint could handle this – especially his end of the bargain.

After a long pause, Clint heard the agent sigh.

_"Roger that, Hawkeye. Making entry in 60, read 6-0 seconds. On my mark."_ Clint tapped the uppermost left key on his watch, lighting up the display. He and Coulson had synchronized watches earlier, the time check they'd executed minutes ago planned as a precaution.

"Ready, Guardian. I've got your six."

A moment later, as Clint's watch clicked over to 00:00 and 00 seconds, Coulson's voice echoed back over the line.

_"Mark."_

* * *

As Coulson skirted along the outer edge of the camp, following the arrow on his GPS tracker, he took a deep breath, and swallowed back the nervousness working its way into reality. Something was still eating at Barton. He could hear it in the kid's voice, as much as Barton tried hiding it with sarcasm and smart-ass replies.

The plan worked. Phil had gone through it meticulously, and addressed every last variable he – and in the end, Barton – could think of. But at the back of Phil's mind, a little voice nagged at him, told him the problem wasn't the plan, that, instead, the problem was Barton. The kid really didn't trust anyone right now, and that the only way to earn that trust would be for Coulson to put in the time and the effort – time he didn't have right now. Effort would only carry him so far.

_Dammitall. _Like it or not, Barton would have to cope with the parts of the plan he didn't like, and trust that Coulson wouldn't order him out of the area unless there was absolutely no chance he and his two agents weren't going to be following close on his heels. He just didn't have time to sort it all through – and neither did Barrett and Callahan.

His slow recce brought Coulson to the end of the rock ledge surrounding the camp. In front of him, the ground leveled off into a flat area, eddies of sand spinning idly in the evening breeze. In front of him were three buildings, and if the GPS was right, at least one of his agents should be in the second of those. The mapping showed a hard fix on Callahan's cell 20.34 feet straight in front of him.

The question was: what else was between him and his agent? Time to get Barton involved.

"Confirm my position, Hawkeye."

His earpiece immediately crackled to life.

_"You're visible to my left, Guardian, but only with the night vision."_ Barton's voice was cool and professional, none of the earlier banter or dissention apparent. _"You have two guards walking the perimeter of the camp, but they're not getting close enough to the rocks. Sloppy."_

Coulson let a tight smile crease his face. With that kind of spacing, and with only the two men out there, he could skirt the edge of the camp all night and not get caught.

"Roger that. GPS is reading about 20 feet in front of me. What's there?"

A few seconds passed before Barton answered.

_"Second of the three buildings, no one guarding the entrance."_ Barton paused for a moment, then added, _"That your target, Guardian?"_

"Affirmative. Problems?"

_"Yeah, sir." _A tinge of sarcasm crept into the sniper's voice._ "There aren't any guards."_

Coulson frowned – not at the words, but the implication. The GPS tracked the signal on Callahan's phone, nothing more and nothing less. That he had tracked that signal to an unguarded building likely meant one of two things: one, the phone had been discovered and discarded in a different place than his agents, or two, the guard was actually inside of the building.

More likely the former than the latter, given that setting just an inside guard would have meant working without a second layer of security. Then again, with just the two guards on the perimeter, Barton hit the proverbial nail on the head.

_Sloppy._ He could exploit that.

"Doesn't mean much, Hawkeye. Do I have a clear line to the doors without being seen?"

Another moment of silence, then, _"You will in about a minute, Guardian. Perimeter will be blind then."_ Barton cleared his throat. _"You going in?"_

"Yes." The silence hung thick for a long moment before Barton responded.

_"Sir, if it looks like a trap and smells like a trap…" _Barton stopped and sighed._ "Do I really need to finish that statement, Guardian?"_

Coulson sighed. Barton had a point. The problem was, he needed to know if his agents were in there. And if they were, it was his job to get them out of there – trap or not.

"That's why I've got you as my eyes and ears, Hawkeye." Phil huffed a small sigh. Barton wasn't going to like this, but Coulson didn't see any other alternative. "Your job is to keep that trap from being deadly, Hawkeye. Or were those glowing evaluations in your file a measured pile of animal excrement?"

Barton's answer was immediate – and more than a little indignant.

_"Sir, no, sir. Wait one."_ Coulson did as he was asked, heaving a silent sigh of relief that the sniper was back on task. After a few seconds, Barton came back over the comm line.

_"You're clear, Guardian. Go now."_

Coulson didn't need any more encouragement. Double checking to make sure his safety was off his gun, he skirted first along the last of the rocks, then against the outer wall of the first building.

_"Stop and hold one, Guardian. New addition to the equation."_ Barton's voice echoed back across the line, and Coulson pulled up short at the added tension in the sniper's voice. _"Two more bad guys just joined the perimeter patrol. Came out of the building at the center of the compound, and went to my left. You have about 30 seconds before they make your position, so I'd pick up the pace and get into your building, sir."_

"Copy that." Coulson took the intelligence at face value and fought the urge to look around him as he sprinted for the door. Barton would have the better view right now, anyhow, and if he didn't trust the kid to have his back, what the hell was the point?

Ten seconds later, his free hand landed on the door handle, and he twisted. Surprisingly, it yielded under the motion, and after clearing the blind spots on either side of the door, he slipped inside.

"I'm in. Update on those two new shadows?" Coulson spoke in low tones, using Pushtu so as not to draw any attention – if anyone was even listening. The small, well-lit corridor sported hanging neon fixtures at regular intervals, and two branches – one to his left, and one to his right. The halls were clear, but not disused. He wanted to find his agents and get the hell out of here before he had to find out just how used they actually were.

_"Skirt—h—remiter."_ Barton's voice broke up in the static, though Phil noted with amusement the sniper had also switched languages. _"Yo—goo—to—for—moment."_

Coulson frowned. The comm pieces he'd pulled for this op were practically brand-new, out of the case for field testing only. And they'd had absolutely no issues until now. He took a finger and tapped it hard against the earpiece.

"Say again, Hawkeye." He barked the comment out again in Pushtu. "You're breaking up."

Barton's answer was immediate – and annoyed.

_"No—it. You—aking—p, too."_ The static continued, and Phil fought the sudden surge of adrenaline at the hitch. Faulty equipment or some sort of interference, it really didn't matter. Phil sighed softly in irritation, and pulled his knife, even as he answered Barton.

"Got it, Hawkeye. Going in silent, left from the inside of the door. Let me know if someone decides to follow."

"-op- that." Barton then fell silent. Coulson was already moving to the left, holding tight to the wall in case someone came around the corner. He thought he'd heard voices as he'd slipped through the door, but since then, silence. He didn't know if there was a guard, two guards – or no guards, or if he'd set off someone's Spidey sense when the door had opened and shut.

He'd just have to hope –

Coulson had about a half a second's warning – the sound of a footfall scraping sand as it came closer – and then a man in desert fatigues and a keffiyeh came around the corner brandishing an AK-47. As he rounded the corner, though, his gaze and gun were aimed high, looking to take out a man at his own height.

By then, Phil had dropped to a crouch. It took the gunman a little more than a second to recognize his target was on the ground, but by then, Coulson had sprung up with his knife, releasing it in a lightning-quick throw and bringing his handgun up a second later in case he needed to announce his presence further with a gunshot.

The knife buried itself in the other man's left eye. As it did, the insurgent's grip on the gun loosened, and Coulson closed the gap between them in two strides. Pulling the gun out of the man's grip with one hand, he pulled his knife back out with the other – then buried it viciously in the base of the man's skull.

The insurgent dropped immediately, Coulson pulling him forward so no one else would see the body fall. He pulled the strap of the AK-47 over his head, and edged toward the corner.

"Hafiz?" A voice, curious, but not alarmed, voiced an inquiry. More words followed, ironically-chosen Pushtu inquiring if Hafiz had tripped over his own two feet yet again. Phil waited, and the second man obliged, walking far less quietly down the hallway after his companion.

This time, Phil was ready for the man. Edging right up to the corner, he again crouched low. As the toes of a pair of boots came into sight, Coulson kicked out and swept the man's legs, bringing him quickly to the ground.

This one hadn't even had a handgun pulled. He blinked in amazement at the agent even as Phil got one arm around the man's throat, braced it with a hand – and twisted. Bonelessly, the man crumpled against Coulson, who stepped away and dropped the body with the other.

Phil counted off a full 10 seconds, waiting to see if anyone else would come down the hall. At the end of the count, he raised his gun, dropped to his knees – and leaned around the corner ready to fire.

No one stood at the lone door, located several yards away at the end of the hallway. Apparently, those two had been the only guards.

"I'm clear, Hawkeye. Going in."

Before he even heard Barton's static-y "copy," Phil sprinted down the hall, coming to a rest against the metal doorframe. The iron door didn't have a handle or doorknob. Rather, a bar dropped into two latches on the door frame, insuring it could only be opened from the outside – and that he could be locked in if he wasn't careful. He lifted the bar, dropping it back into a similar latch on the door, and pulled it open quickly.

The door opened out, which meant Coulson lost his cover as soon as he stepped into the room. It also meant he could clear it quickly. He didn't need to bother. The only two forms in the dark room – lit only by the residual light from the hallway – were tied, arms and legs, to wooden chairs set in the middle of the room.

As he slid fully into the room, Coulson's stomach rebelled against a foul odor – a mix of copper and urine and something else, something familiar and yet unidentifiable. He felt along the wall for a light switch. It took barely a moment, and as he flipped the switch on, he got a clear, unobstructed view of his two agents.

Barrett and Callahan didn't move. The two chairs sat in pools of blood, so copious that Phil's mind automatically corrected his thinking from "two agents" to "two bodies." He dropped down next to the closer of the two, and lifted the head. Barrett's lifeless eyes stared back at him, his face a rictus of pain. Phil knew he had to check Callahan, knew just as certainly it would be pointless. Because as he had lifted Curt Barrett's head, his eyes identified the smell his nose had picked up and made the final connection his brain had been missing.

All this – traveling to the country, finding the Ranger unit after a failed rescue, finding Barton – had been completely pointless. Barrett and Callahan were dead. His adrenaline surged, fueled by fear, fueled by grief – fueled by anger at being too late to do anything but look at their bodies and realize that he was so late to the game that the bodies were already starting to decompose.

Too goddamned late.

* * *

Clint hated waiting.

Never mind that he'd gotten damned good at it over the last three years. Sometimes it seemed like that was all he did in the Army – hurry up for just about everything, and then wait for the situation to pull the trigger. He'd lost track of the number of hours he had spent camped in a sniper's nest, desert sun beating down on his neck, with just Collins as company and a bottle of water to keep his mouth from drying out completely.

He could and would wait – even patiently, if it meant the satisfaction of taking down a target that richly deserved to have a bullet squarely placed in his or her eye. He still preferred his bow and arrow – thing had recyclable ammunition, which tended to come in handy – but he could make due with a sniper rifle. Hell, he'd established one hell of a reputation "making due."

It didn't making waiting ANY easier, though, and Coulson was seriously starting to push his luck. Clint knew the agent would contact him if and when he needed to, and not before. But the silence nagged at him anyhow, and just sitting here in the dark, doing absolutely nothing while waiting for the damned man to …

_"Guardian to Hawkeye. Do you copy?"_

The static on the line still scratched away at Coulson's voice, but the man's voice came through clearer than it had earlier.

"Roger that, Guardian. You find them?"

There was a beat of silence, and just before the agent's voice came back across the line, Clint suddenly knew why.

Coulson's voice came back, at once gruff and yet pained.

_"They're dead, Hawkeye."_

Clint sagged down against the stone floor of his sniper's nest, a surge of shame fresh in his stomach.

"How long?"

Coulson didn't even pretend to not know what he was asking.

_"Probably about a day, judging by the state of the bodies."_ Coulson's voice stayed calm, almost infuriatingly so. Then the man heaved a shaky sigh. _"Looks like they were tortured. Given what they look like, I don't think they gave up much – if anything."_

And that was supposed to make him feel better? The whole fucking situation was fucking FUBAR. Clint bit back an angry retort, even as he felt bitter bile eating its way up his throat, and slid his left hand off the sniper rifle, clenching a fist and releasing it several times in an attempt to keep his emotions under control.

_If I'd taken the shot, they might still be alive._ The two agents might still have died, but they might not have. By not shooting, by waving off the rescue … he'd essentially signed their death certificates.

_**He'd**_ signed it – no one else. _God._ Maybe Maxwell and Nelson had been right, and he was the biggest fuck-up on the face of the planet. He should –

_"Hawkeye!"_ Coulson's voice barked out his name, pitched to get his attention and hold it. Clint winced, and tugged slightly at the earpiece.

"Fuck, Guardian. I hear you, OK?" Clint knew the sarcasm had bled back into his voice, and he really didn't much care. He'd screwed up. _AGAIN_. He ran a hand over his eyes, fighting for a moment of calm, something to force some sanity back into this mess.

When he finally spoke, he dug hard for the humor.

"So, are you a fan of whole 'Samuri falling on his sword on dishonor' method, or do you just want to make Maxwell's day and deliver me back for that court martial?"

There was a long moment of silence before Coulson's voice, calmer and a tad gentle, came back over the line.

_"Neither, actually."_ That eerie detachment – that preternatural calm – crept back into the man's voice. _"We'll worry about a postmortem once we're the hell out of the country, but this isn't any one person's fault. Right now, we need to move on. You understand?"_

Clint closed his eyes, took a deep breath and counted to five, then hissed the breath out through his teeth for another count of five. A sniper's repetition count, designed to slow the pulse and narrow the focus.

Two more times through the pattern, and Clint had some semblance of control back.

"Copy that, Guardian." He opened his eyes, and settled his eye back to the rifle's scope.

_"I'm headed back to the outside door. Give me a_–_"_

"Hold one." A movement at the edge of the compound caught Clint's eye, and he focused back through the lens of his scope, forcing a measure of calm into his behavior. He was a sniper. This was what he did – and no one did it better.

What he saw, though, had him back on the comm after about two seconds of observation.

"Guardian, recommend you relocate, preferably as fast as humanly possible. I don't know if you set off a silent alarm or your guards missed a check-in, but there are two groups of 10 moving in on your position, plus the group still walking the perimeter."

Clint grinned in the darkness, and flicked the safety off his rifle. "Permission to wipe some of these fuckers off the face of the planet, SIR."

* * *

"Right now, we need to move on. You understand?"

Phil shook his head as he waited for Barton to get his shit together and answer. He would give the kid 60 seconds, and then both of them were going to have to find whatever respective mental boxes they needed to store this in and utilize them. God knew they'd both need them.

_He'd_ sent them here. Phil dropped his head down, and reached deep for the emotional bunkers he'd carefully constructed over the years.

They didn't come easily. He – Agent Phil Coulson, Guardian – sent them here looking for information, and they were dead. "Guardian" had failed. Again. Phil wanted nothing more than to lose his fabled composure, scream at the fates, take a weapon and shoot anything and everything in the immediate area that so much as twitched.

Instead, he found himself looking at the sad fact that he couldn't even bring Barrett and Callahan home to be buried. He reached into his pack, and pulled out the explosives he'd carefully stored there. Granted, the plan had been to use them to blow the compound to kingdom come AFTER rescuing Barrett and Callahan, but he supposed a funeral pyre would work just as well.

Phil had just planted them around the doorframe, attached the timer and set it for five minutes – then started the timer on his own watch – when Barton came back on the line.

_"Copy that, Guardian."_ Barton's voice was a cool match to Phil's own faux placidity – a fact for which the agent was grateful. None of this was really the sniper's fault. It was shit bad luck, pure and simple. Phil just didn't have time to explain why quite yet.

"I'm headed back to the outside door." Phil tapped the start/stop button on the timer, and scrambled to his feet. "Give me a –"

"Hold one." Barton came back across the comm, his voice edging back toward tense. Phil froze, raising the AK-47 as he waited for Barton to continue.

_"Guardian, recommend you relocate, preferably as fast as humanly possible. I don't know if you set off a silent alarm or your guards missed a check-in, but there are two groups of 10 moving in on your position, plus the group still walking the perimeter."_

Shit. Phil made a quick show of clearing the immediate area, then raced down the hall toward the exit. But even as he moved, Barton was back on the line.

_"Permission to wipe some of these fuckers off the face of the planet, SIR."_

Phil knew Barton was itching to fire his weapon, and he knew why. But until he knew for sure he'd been compromised, he didn't want to take the chance of Barton's position being made. And no matter what kind of shot Barton was, he'd be limited by the size of the magazine on the Remington 700 – likely five shots.

"Negative, Hawkeye. Hold one and see where they –" Phil didn't get a chance to finish the sentence. Through the door, he heard a loud voice, issuing orders in Pushtu to open the door and fire on anything that moved.

Phil raced back for the bend in the hallway, knew instinctively he wouldn't make it before someone opened fire.

And then a crisp, clear shot rattled off. Even as he turned to fire a short burst from the assault rifle, the first body fell in through the doorway – blood streaming down the side of the man's face from what Phil knew had to be a sniper bullet to the head. Before anyone else could follow the leader, four shots followed in quick succession.

There were wild, panicked shouts outside the door in the short silence that followed. Phil got himself to the bend in the corridor, relief flooding him even as he wondered if anyone had gotten a bead on Barton.

Then another five shots silenced the voices in the night beyond. In the distance, he heard someone shout orders to find the shooter, but no one else breached the door.

Even as Phil opened his mouth to read Barton the riot act, a snap-crackle announced Barton's presence on the comm.

_"Guardian, consider yourself guarded."_ Barton's smart-ass tone rang out loud and clear, and Phil could hear the sniper clearing and then reloading the magazine for the Remington in the background. _"You __**might**__ want to find some new cover before the second group decides to get friend –"_

Barton stopped talking, and Phil heard the sniper reel off another three shots. Two impacted at a distance, but the third cracked bone – presumably someone's skull – close enough for Phil to hear the body crumple to the ground.

The chatter of an AK-47 responded, aimed high and away from Phil. He could hear the bullets ricocheting off the rock walls high above him, and then the same sound a microsecond later as the bullets impacted close enough for Barton's comm to pick them up.

_Fuck._ They'd located the damned kid. Mindful of keeping himself as low profile as possible, Coulson sprinted for the door and hoped the last round of gunfire from the sniper had taken out anyone nearby.

Even as he reached the door, though, two more rounds from the Remington apparently found targets. Then Barton came back on the line, every ounce of sarcasm gone – hidden behind a layer of irritation laced with a hint of pain.

_"Sir, you've got your distraction."_ Barton panted the line out, and Phil heard footfalls that he could only pray were the sniper's. _"Recommend getting the fuck out of Dodge."_

* * *

_**Author's note: Yup, all hell is about to break loose. Remember, I love reviews as much as Aggie does, so please leave one if you don't mind? :)**_


	7. And I am left to sell

_**Author's note: To everyone who patiently waited (and sometimes begged for more), I'm going to apologize right now. Due to work and real life landing on my shoulders, I haven't even started the next chapter left. For those who thought the last ended on a cliffhanger, this one certainly does. So no one freaks, I'll say straight off: no permanent damage will done to our heroes. That said, it's gonna get painful. I hope to get the next chapter started this week on vacation, but I do have company visiting, so I'm pleading the real life card and begging for patience. Everyone's response has been wonderful, and I hope you all stick around.**_

Even as he issued his warning to Coulson, Clint was already on his feet. Another burst of fire from an insurgent's AK-47 shattered the rock inches from his head, and he cursed as he dropped behind what little cover the outcropping on his left provided.

He reached out to snag his Remington, but his fingers had barely brushed the polished metal before a flurry of bullets hit the rock the rifle rested on. _Shit._ Someone either had a night scope or shit blind luck. Clint flattened himself back against the outcropping, but not anywhere quick enough to avoid the splinters of rock that exploded at him. He felt something rip along the outside of his right thumb, pain burning its way up his wrist.

"SonofaBITCH!" Clint wrapped his fingers – now slick with what had to be blood – around the muzzle of the Remington and pulled it back into his cover, his hand singing a loud chorus of pain with the effort. He spared just a second to flick on the safety, and then yanked the camo bandana from around his neck and wrapped it tightly around the wound.

An incomprehensible yell sounded out of the earpiece, still dangling free of his ear, and Clint quickly stuffed it back in.

_"-eye, do you copy?"_ Coulson's voice crackled across the earpiece. _"What the hell just happened?"_

Clint closed his eyes, trying to push back the pain and just deal with the situation.

"Fucking machine gun fire hit the fucking rock, and the splinters just happened to chew up my fucking hand."

_"Jesus…are you OK?" _No static on Coulson's line now, and the older man's worry came through loud and clear. Clint could tell he hadn't stopped moving, though, as the words were punctuated with rough exhalations – the kind you got when you tried talking and running at the same time.

Clint snorted.

"Oh, just fan-fucking-tastic, sir. Could do without a repeat performance, though." He didn't need to admit anything more than that right now, and what Coulson didn't know wouldn't kill him. Clint pulled a deep breath, and pushed it out through his teeth. The trick was compartmentalizing. The pain was in his hand, nowhere else, and he could keep it there. He could _**do**_ this. "Tell me where you are, sir, and what your orders are."

A frustrated sigh echoed back across the line.

_"We have about three minutes to get clear of this area, if you get my drift." _Clint didn't need to be a genius to figure that one out, especially since he'd seen some of the more … exotic choices Coulson had slipped into his backpack. _"Time for you to –"_

A staccato burst of AK-47 fire had Clint wincing and ripping the earpiece out in an attempt to save what might be left of his hearing. It took the noise out of his ear, but the sound of gunfire still traveled up from the compound below.

Hurriedly, he shoved the earpiece back in.

"Guardian, do you read?" He knew a note of panic had started to seep back into his voice, but he also didn't care. That note took a firm hold when Coulson didn't answer.

"Dammitall, Guardian, answer me, or I'm ignoring orders and coming down there." Another burst of gunfire echoed down near the compound, but this time, Clint didn't get the feedback over the earpiece.

"Guar –"

_"Little busy at the moment, Hawkeye."_ Coulson sounded out of breath now, and Clint was willing to bet the man had taken off running even as the machine gun rounds had found his position. _"They're back on me. Take advantage of the opportunity if you don't mind?"_

Relocate. "On it." Clint flexed the fingers on his injured hand, then got a grip on the sniper rifle. He'd set up an escape route before he'd even settled on a spot for his sniper nest, a path up and over the rocks, a route that would take him to a secondary vantage point he could only hope would give him a line of sight on the agent's pursuers.

It took Clint all of a few seconds to scamper up the loose rock path, followed by nothing by a light breeze. _Dammit_. Either these guys were grossly incompetent, or Coulson had truly pissed them off enough to draw all the pursuit. Clint was willing to better it was the latter, and he had no real clue what direction the agent had run off in. Dropping to a prone position, he reset the rifle and looked through the night scope.

Aha. There they were, the bastards. A good-sized group of about 10 were weaseling their way around one of the outbuildings, hanging close to concrete block in hopes of presenting less of a target.

Time to even the odds in Coulson's favor. Clint took a deep breath, blew it out quickly, then sighted his first target and fired.

One down. He chambered another round, took another deep breath, exhaled – and the count on the ground reached two. Every bit of movement at the building halted as the terrorists whipped their heads around in the dark, crouched down low to the ground even as they raised their AK-47s, looking for a target. Clint let a feral grin cross his face as he chambered the third round.

_Fuckers. Hope you aren't attached to your heads_. He was in a zone now, one where he didn't even need to breathe. It was better than target shooting at the circus, because this time, the targets meant more than earning a free meal or a bonus. Bad people were _dead_, thank you _very_ much. Three quick shots later, three bodies collapsed on the ground – all missing a significant portion of their heads.

Clint was just about to crow triumphantly into the comm when three weapons let loose automatic fire at once. One set tracked in his direction, and Clint barely had time to recognize he'd have caught the blast full in the chest if not for the fact he'd dropped down to reload the magazine. Even as he ducked his head down, though, the fire in his direction stopped, and he heard a string of curses echo in his ear.

Clint thunked his head against the rock. Of course the bad guys were still trailing the agent. Because nothing could be easy out here, could it.

Suddenly, Coulson quit swearing.

_"Hawkeye…report."_ Coulson panted out the directive. _"Let … me know…"_

"Down and dirty, sir. But still in one piece. Give me a second to – "

_"NO."_ Coulson's words were emphatic. _"Remember that order you didn't care much for earlier? I need you to follow it. NOW."_

A cool pit of anger started to boil in Clint's stomach, and the next words were out of his mouth almost of their own accord.

"Copy that, Guardian. But no can do. Reloading, and then I'll see how many more I can pick off your tail."

_"Dammitall, Hawkeye, I'm ordering you to clear the area. Follow the directions back to the fallback point and –"_

"I'm sorry, Hawkeye can't come to the phone right now. He's too busy sniping the bad guys off his boss's ass." Clint paused, slammed the magazine home, and reeled off two more quick shots. "Please leave a message at the sound of the beep." He paused, then added a loud, "BEEEEEP."

There was a second of silence, and then Coulson let loose a string of invectives that would have made Barton's Ranger group blush.

"Gee, sir, you kiss your mother with that mouth?" Looking through the scope, Clint found three more targets, and dispatched each with a head shot. Then he pulled the magazine out, tossed it on the ground, and reloaded. "Trying to save your ass, sir. Talk less, run more."

_"Hawkeye, I gave you a goddamned order and you said you'd follow it!"_

Clint yanked the ear bud out, letting the earpiece still hang from his ear. _Nothing worth hearing right now anyway._ As soon as Clint had a sight line on the next group, he opened fire. This time, he had five good head shots, five bodies dropping without even firing a shot. But even as he let loose the final bullet, Clint saw another group peel off in his direction.

Clint sighed, picked up his rifle and made for the next line of rocks. About time he got outside the blast radius in any case.

* * *

"Hawkeye! Dammitall, answer me!"

Phil got absolutely nothing in response. Probably pulled the earpiece so he wouldn't have to listen – or get distracted. Even as his stomach started to boil in anger, he ran, refusing to let the gunners still on his tail get a good bead on his position. The anger served as an added boost of adrenaline, though, a needed push as he kept up as steady a sprint as possible.

He should have known. Barton had made no secret that he didn't like that portion of the agent's instructions – and damned if he hadn't said as much to Phil's face. But Phil was the experienced agent, and if something went wrong on his end, he'd wanted Barton safe. Not to mention Phil had a HELL of a lot more experience when it came to evading capture under circumstances like this.

Dammit. He hadn't wanted to be worrying about Barton in this situation. Hell, it was the very reason he'd given the damned kid the damned order. But apparently, trust and respect only went so far in Barton's somewhat screwed-up head.

The rapport of another set of shots echoed through the rocks, and Phil knew instinctively that a handful of his pursuers were now down and out of the fight. He had absolutely no idea how many were left, and didn't care so long as none of them put a bullet in his body. If he kept moving, the odds of that happening diminished considerably – and would get him outside of the radius of the blast he knew was coming. His thoughts went back to Barton, and Phil wanted nothing more than to simultaneously thank the damned kid for saving his ass – and then chew him out for not doing exactly what he'd been told in a deteriorating live-fire situation.

No wonder Maxwell had been all over Barton's ass. There was a too-fine line between genius and insanity in this business, and no one could survive every hellish situation thrown at him. Except that Barton had, and the shiny new lieutenant either couldn't cope with that kind of brilliance, or lacked the experience to figure out how to deal with it. Even as he reached the first low rocks that marked the very edge of the camp, Phil let a small little grin crease his features.

_We get out of this, and that kid has a brilliant future._ And also probably a shitload of unofficial SHIELD reprimands coming his way.

The thought carried him another 15 or 20 steps – maybe 30 seconds all told. Then without warning, night turned into day, a rush of air almost pulled him backward, and Phil had barely enough time to throw himself to the ground, throw his hands to his head and pray that he'd found the right balance between blowing the compound to hell and gone and not taking himself and Barton along with it.

The concussive blast from the explosives skimmed over the top of Phil's head, but either luck or skill kept it to just hot air and no actual flames. He coughed in the sudden heat, but kept his body down behind the rocks and waited it out.

After another minute, he felt comfortable enough to inch up and peer over the boulders. The sight that greeted him was nothing short of impressive. The building that had housed the prisoners didn't even appear to have a foundation left beyond a few concrete blocks, and the surrounding buildings were in various stages that would've impressed even SHIELD's explosive experts.

All that with nothing but a few blocks of C-4. Coulson grinned mirthlessly. When pushed, he could make do. When he realized that no one was rushing toward him out of the conflagration, he tapped his earpiece.

Time to find his wayward sniper.

"Hawkeye. Report." Phil didn't know if Barton would have put the earpiece back in or not, but his brief impressions of the kid told him that the sniper had enough common sense to try and reestablish contact after something as refreshing as an explosion.

And yet, there was no answer. Coulson rolled his eyes as he pulled out the earpiece to check for damage. Finding none, he slipped it back on and put an extra edge in his tone.

"Dammitall, Hawkeye. Report. That's informing me of whether or not you're still in one piece, and you'd damned well better be after that stunt you just pulled."

Again, silence. When Coulson finally managed to swallow back the surge of nausea in his stomach, his words had an acid touch to them – and an annoying touch of worry.

"Barton, so help me God, if you don't –"

The comm link crackled to life.

_"Not now, Guardian. Got company. Bye!"_

* * *

Clint hated being wrong.

No, scratch that. He really, REALLY despised being wrong – especially when he was the one left holding the shitsack full of consequences. As he ducked back down under the minimal cover provided by a jagged outcropping of rock, he wondered idly if Coulson was the type to say, "I told you so."

He really hoped not, because this kinda sucked enough as it was.

At least one of that small group he'd seen peel off from the pursuit of Coulson had followed him up here. He'd managed to get out of the original outcropping he'd been using as a vantage point, and down almost to ground level – about 50 meters from where he'd been, a spot where the rocks were a virtual labyrinth of small caves, passages and jagged edges. He'd been about ready to make a run for the clearing he knew Coulson had been heading for when the first round of shots from an AK-47 pinned him down so effectively that all he could do was blindly return fire with his pistol and pray he actually HIT something.

Another round of fire from the assault rifle hit the rocks, spattering him with shards, and Barton swore softly. These damned assholes were seriously starting to piss him off. But as he raised his gun to return fire, the world around him suddenly … shifted and flared to the light as bright as the sun.

_Oh, shit, Coulson's expl_…and then Clint was propelled up and backward by a rush of air and heat so intense that for a moment, he thought his skin had caught fire. Then he hit the unyielding surface of the rock wall behind him – hard enough to knock every last bit of air out of his lungs – and dropped to the sand, instinctively covering his head with his arms and gasping for oxygen.

The rush of heat past him now, he realized that the rocks had blocked most of the blast. The clamp on his lungs loosened as the heat backed off, and it became easier to breathe. He groaned as he stretched, but with the exception of blossoming soreness in his back – and wasn't that going to feel just terrific tomorrow – Clint could move everything with some semblance of normalcy and with a minimum of pain.

He put his head back on the ground, closed his eyes, and sighed. Join the Army. See the world, they said. Shoot the bad guys, they said. Never had anyone mention secret agents, an organization called SHIELD or big nasty explosions in nasty rock-filled mountains.

_I __**so**__ did not sign up for this shit._ Clint went to lever himself up on his elbows, aiming for upright. Then he could try the comm and find out just where the hell Coulson had –

The skittering of pebbles down the rock wall behind him was the only warning Clint got. But even as he reached for his sidearm and made to roll to his side, someone slammed into him from behind, crunching him forward into his knees, back and neck screaming in protest.

A hand came up across his face, but Clint grabbed the arm, pulled, and rolled, throwing a wild elbow that connected with bone and flesh. The man cursed viciously in Pushtu, and retaliated with a fist right into Clint's solar plexus.

_Oh, fuck._ Suddenly unable to breathe, Clint brought his knee up hard, aiming for the man's crotch. He didn't land quite all of the blow he meant to, but he caught enough for the terrorist to curl in on himself – and away from his attacker. Wheezing, Clint took the opportunity to scramble away, reaching for his gun and instead closing his hand around an empty holster.

_Are you fucking kidding me?_ Clint scanned the area quickly, and found nothing but sand. That was all he had time for, too, as the man in front of him regained enough control to push himself to his feet. Blood streamed down the face of his attacker, a ragged gash above the eyebrow showing just how true Clint's elbow had landed.

Slowly, the man crouched into a fighting stance, glaring at Clint with an almost-maniacal expression of glee. On the upside, the man wasn't holding an AK-47, and that in and of itself was a minor miracle. On the downside, Clint didn't exactly have anything left to shoot the man with.

For now, though, having jumped Clint once with the element of surprise, the guy seemed content to size him up and look for an opening. Probably a wise move on his part, since everything Clint had ever seen on insurgents involved guns and IEDs, not hand-to-hand knife fighting.

"You Americans and your explosives," the man spat out at him in rough, heavily accented English. He then slid his hand along his thigh, slowly removing a brutally-edged knife from a hidden sheath. "But you did not get all of us, and you will pay for your aggressiveness."

Keeping his eyes on the man the whole time, making sure the knife wasn't going to just be thrown at his heart or his eyes, Clint reached for his own blade. A Marine K-Bar, it slid easily from the sheath on his bulletproof vest, and Clint palmed it confidently.

"Bring it." But just as he began eying up his opponent, his own mirthless grin crossing his face, his comm – the earpiece still securely in his ear in spite of the open salvos of this fight – crackled to life.

_"Hawkeye. Report." _Well, that answered the question of whether or not Coulson had made it out safely. Fine. Everyone was still in one piece. He'd get to Coulson in a bit. Right now, he had one terrorist to go bad-ass on. The agent would just have to wait.

_"Dammitall, Hawkeye. Report. That's informing me of whether or not you're still in one piece, and you'd damned well better be after that stunt you just pulled." _Keeping his eyes on the man in front of him, Clint started to slowly advance, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Coulson apparently had no patience.

When the comm piece crackled a third time, Barton was ready for it.

_"Barton, so help me God, if you don't –"_ With his free hand, Clint tapped the microphone to life and snarled.

"Not now, Guardian. Got company. Bye!"And then Clint ripped the earpiece out, tossing it to the ground, out of the way. The terrorist, still eying him warily, raised his knife in response, and Clint nodded.

"I said bring it, you bastard."

* * *

Clint wasn't surprised when the man didn't immediately lunge at him with the knife. A little disappointed, maybe – after all, a hot-headed asshole would make this fight a lot easier – but not surprised.

_Patience, Barton._ He could practically hear his Ranger Instructor in his head. The man had been a black patent leather dick, but he damned well knew his stuff. Thought before action had been the man's mantra, and it had saved Barton's ass a few times in the field.

_Didn't keep my fellow Rangers off my ass, though, did it._ Clint narrowed his eyes and tried to focus, forcing himself to keep an on every little twitch his enemy made. He kept his back to the rocks, taking a deep breath and then letting it out – slowly – through his nose.

You can do this. Let him make the first move. Clint wanted to let the other guy strike at him first. His best offense would be to react to an opening salvo, see what the man did – and then respond. Even as they sized each other up, Clint looked and saw weaknesses. Little things, like how the man skirted nervously away from the rocks, wanting to stay in the center of this small cove Clint had found. Or how he fidgeted with his knife, spinning it in his hand as he moved, constantly readjusting his grip. And he stayed his crouch, looking low, aiming low.

_Bastard is gonna go for my –_ and then the man dove toward Clint's feet, swiping upward with the knife even as he rolled and tried to sweep Clint's legs out from underneath him. Clint didn't even stop to think. He reached up with his free hand, instinctively finding a hand hold and pulling himself up and away from the attack, anchoring himself with a foot in another small outcropping. The knife ripped along the inside edge of his boots and then up into the fabric of his pants, but didn't find purchase. A moment later, he'd lashed out with his own kick, catching the terrorist square in the chest with both feet.

Clint felt a brief moment of triumph, and then the rock his right hand had latched onto first shifted. He didn't even get a chance to swear as the rock pulled completely free. The momentum of his kick carried his legs out and away from the rocks, but plunged him back- and head-first into the outcropping. The Kevlar kept the rocks from chewing up his spine, but his head slammed painfully into the surface.

Vision going grey, Clint rolled to the ground and onto his chest, his only thought the knife still in his left hand. _Don't let go, keep a grip, don't –_ A weight landed heavily on his back, and fingers threaded into his hair and yanked backward, exposing Clint's throat.

Clint didn't think, he just reacted. He bucked against the weight pinning him down, at the same time jerking his head forward and to the side. The motion was enough to keep the knife from connecting with his throat, the terrorist sliding off Clint's right side with a vicious curse in Pushtu. For a moment, Clint felt a heady surge of relief, tucking his head down and giddy to still be alive as he thought he heard metal clatter against rock. But as he rolled, his right side exploded with pain as the man's fist connected with his ribs at the weak spot where the vest ended and Clint's underarm lay exposed.

_Fuck, that's gonna leave a bru –_ Then the terrorist pulled away, snarling, his knife still in his hand, a nasty smirk creasing his features. Clint's vision blurred for a moment, as the pain burned in his side, and then cleared as a surge of adrenaline worked its way into his veins. Then the knife came down again, this time aiming for his heart.

He scrambled for purchase in the sand, trying to back away, trying to get his own knife up and around. But instead of his left hand coming up with the blade, Clint's right closed around more metal – a barrel, and then a handgrip.

It took him a millisecond to raise the weapon and aim, another to latch his finger around the trigger and pull. A blur of motion, an explosion of sound, and Clint felt the gray encroach again, dead weight collapsing against him and pinning him to the ground.

His chest screaming for air now, Clint couldn't move. He tried to push the terrorist up and off him, expecting the man to somehow still be alive and ready to strike a killing blow with his blade. But the man didn't move, and after a few seconds, Clint realized that his lungs were still working. He fought to get the air into his lungs, his whole body burning with the exertion and the weight lying on top of him, gasping at the night air like he couldn't get enough.

_Push him off. Push him off, Barton, get free, and_ – Clint twisted, gained as much purchase as his limp arms would allow, and heaved. The terrorist fell away, but as he did, Clint's whole chest caught fire and burned. Shit, that punch broke a rib. He gasped, curling in on himself even as he looked and saw the shattered remains of the terrorist's face, the bullet having torn through the jaw and then up into the brain.

Dead, very damned dead, and Clint tried to chuckle as he remembered he'd done the damage with his wrong hand. His right let go of the gun almost of its own accord, and Clint's laugh turned into a wheeze. Groaning softly, Clint brought his left arm across his chest to brace his ribs, wondering if Coulson's first-aid pack had some decent tape he could use when they got back out.

But when he got his hand across, Clint didn't feel the familiar ache of a broken rib. Instead, his hand slid across something wet. As his brain registered the fact that his shirt was well soaked, Clint found he still couldn't pull in a decent breath. A growing realization hit him as he pulled his hand back, sticky and covered in blood.

_His _blood. His mind suddenly connecting the events and then the blade that had been in the terrorist's hand as he'd come in for the killing blow, Clint collapsed back against the sand, and wheezed out the only words that came to mind.

"Well, _shit_."

* * *

Five minutes, and Phil had counted every last second of it on his watch. Every thirty seconds – and he'd been clocking it exactly on the '30' mark and the '0' – he'd tried raising Barton, only to hear silence over the comm. _Every. SINGLE. Time._ With the flames from the compound still providing enough light to navigate by, he'd started to double back along the rock formation to Clint's last known position, trying to figure out just what he would do when he found the kid.

That would likely depend on the condition he found him in. Letting loose a harried sigh, Phil looked down at his watch, caught the second mark kick to zero – and keyed his mike.

"Barton, status." When, yet again, he didn't get an answer, Phil stopped and snarled into the mike, "You have exactly 30 seconds to get back on this comm line, Barton, or you really aren't going to want me to find you."

Suddenly, there was static on the line, and then a scuffling noise. Then, finally, Barton's voice sounded over the comm.

_"Didn't…copy…that last, Guardian. Say again?"_ Phil could hear the hitch in the younger man's voice, and the panting note to Barton's breathing.

"I said, give me your status, Barton." Phil knew he wasn't using the damned code names now, but frankly, he didn't care. It was taking everything he had to keep ahold of his irritation. "Preferably in the form of, 'I'm fine, and I promise never to pull a stunt like this ever again.'"

_"Funny, sir. You sound just … just like …"_ And then the words were gone, replaced by a hacking cough and then a painful gasp for air. Phil winced, and then turned and slapped the rock wall in frustration.

_So much for getting, "I'm fine," and getting the hell out of here._

"OK, that's it, Barton. Never mind your status. Give me your location. I'm coming to get you." Sighing, Phil started looking for handholds, a way up into the rocks toward the higher ground Barton had been occupying since this began.

_"Uh, negative, Guardian."_ Barton seemed to be grinding the words out through a clenched jaw, but there was also a hint of that smartass grin. _"We're … we're all fi…fine here…now. Thank you. How…are you?"_

Phil rolled his eyes.

"Barton, unless you want to be tied down in a SHIELD infirmary and subjected to a 24-hour loop of the disco Star Wars theme, give me your location and status." When there was nothing but the sound of Barton panting for a long second, Phil added angrily, "NOW!"

_"No need … Coulson."_ An edge crept into Barton's voice now, all good humor gone. _"Just … got the wind … knocked out of me. Plus the bastard landed on…"_ Barton coughed, then continued shakily, _"landed on my goddamned back. Think he broke a few…few ribs, but I can … I can walk."_

Phil sighed.

"That all, or do you have anything else to add to that tally?" Remembering Barton's earlier words all of a sudden, Phil added, "And what about your hand?"

Of all things, a soft chuckle sounded over the line.

_"My hand?"_ The chuckle dissolved into another cough, and then the sound of the microphone scuffling against cloth as Barton shifted around on his end. _"Least of my … my problems, Coulson. And yeah, that's about … about it."_ There was a pause, Barton still panting air in and out of his lungs. _"Primary evac point, or the secondary location?"_

Phil swallowed hard, fighting a nagging disquiet that Barton hadn't told him the whole story. But if he wasted time trying to climb up and around the rocks, chances were he wouldn't find Barton, but one of the handful of terrorists that had to still be combing the area.

As if the sniper had read his mind, Barton spoke again.

_"C'mon, Coulson, you know those…'plosives … didn't ta… take out everyone."_ Barton was all seriousness now. _"More time we waste … fucking …'round, th'more chance one … one of them finds you, me, or both of us."_

Phil sighed loudly. Trust had to come sometime, he supposed.

"Fine." Coulson pushed away from the wall, pulling the spare clip for his sidearm from his belt, ejecting the now-spent cartridge, and slamming the new one home. Better safe than sorry. "Primary evac point. You have two hours."

On the other end, Barton snorted in derision.

"_Gonna…make it … make it in one, Guardian. Don't…don't be late, OK?"_

Phil shook his head, and started walking again.

"Whatever you say, Hawkeye. Out."

* * *

Listening to the comm line click off, Clint leaned back against the rock, thankful for the cool surface on his head and neck. Gingerly, he pulled his hand away from the kerchief he'd shoved into his vest against the knife wound, and then poised his small Maglite – red bulb to diminish any effect on his vision – to get a look.

Even in the dim light, he could see the darker stain of blood on his fingers.

"Fuck me." He hadn't been able to get a good look at the wound, or do much of anything except rip off his bandana and press it up hard. Even then, the damned thing still had managed to bleed through the cloth. How much, he wasn't sure, but enough that it had gone through several layers and ended up on his hand.

Nothing for it. He didn't have the materials to deal with this here – not even a packet of that damned clotting agent the company medics had made sure to hand out before missions. How the hell had he missed that in the rush to get moving?

"Easy, Barton." Clint whispered out loud to himself. "Didn't think … at all." He hadn't thought about anything, apparently. About getting hurt, or things going sideways so bad that he'd be separated from Coulson, or having to do anything other than bare basics on scene for Coulson's now very dead agents. Clint clamped his arm against his side, gasping in pain at the effort. It would've taken him all of 30 seconds to have shoved a few extras in his pocket, and then he wouldn't be –

"_Fuck_ it all." Clint hissed out the words. He had to try to get moving. Otherwise, he'd be putting Coulson at risk by making the agent double back for him. He wasn't about to let anyone else put themselves in harm's way for him, not now, not after McDermid and Collins and the fucked-up rescue mission from hell. Pulling his hand away from the wound, he cinched the Velcro on his Kevlar as tight as he could, wincing at the pressure on his chest.

"Move your ass, Barton. Just … move." Clint pushed himself away from the rocks, bringing his legs underneath him so he could use the rocks to try and level himself onto his feet. His hand throbbing and his chest protesting, he got about a third of the way out of his crouch before his vision went gray and his legs suddenly buckled, sprawling him back onto the sand and bouncing his head up against the unforgiving rock wall.

Panting harshly, Clint clung to consciousness with every last ounce of willpower he had left.

"Just…a…rest." Clint dropped his head down to his chest, focusing only on getting air into his lung. The pressure from the vest, the pain, the gray in his vision wanting to go to black, it piled onto him, forcing a fresh spike of adrenaline into his system. With it came a rush of clarity, and Clint shifted first to his knees, and then back to his feet.

He made it a few yards down the passageway in the rocks before he stumbled on a small outcropping in the sand. His unsteady feet refused to stay under him, and he tumbled back to ground, landing on his right side.

His chest now burning, the gray in his vision returned, and Clint curled into himself, pulling himself out of the open air into a small alcove in the rock.

_Just a short rest._ Just a short…and the darkness came up to claim him, suddenly, swiftly, and without remorse.


	8. Through miles of clouded hell

_Author's notes: First of all, to everyone who reviewed chapter six, and has been patiently (or not so patiently) waiting for this next installment: THANK YOU. I have not been holding it hostage – at least, not on purpose. Life threw me a curve ball in August, as I received a promotion at work, and have spent the last month and a half getting settled into a job I never expected to have in my life. I'm finally in a position now where I'm not frantically treading water, and Aggie's beginning to post "New York" was just inspiration I needed to get this moving. Well, that and making a few hours in a crazy schedule to write the last section._

_So, here is chapter seven (well, by 's count, eight, since it seems to think the prologue is chapter one). Please enjoy. And like Aggie, I love reviews. Special shout out to Nonyvole, who beta'ed this for me in spite of being sick. *hugs* Thank you, hon. You are awesome._

* * *

_Clint Barton had been sure of a lot of things in his life._

_ But now, as he stood in the chill of the midnight air, his chest aching, riding this surge of adrenaline and pain, he suddenly understood – he just knew – what he'd never figured out before now._

_ He couldn't be sure of anything. Not now, and maybe never again._

_ "C'mon, bro, you know how it goes." The tone in Barney's voice … it was so … greasy. Clint had heard it from others in the foster home, those trying to weasel their way through others' defenses, trying to get away with something. That little bit of fake innocence, all there to fool people into believing what they could see – he'd heard it so many times before._

_ His brother could pull it off better than anyone else._

_ "You…you let him…" Clint heaved in a breath, which triggered a cough. The cough went on and on, doubling him over as he fought to get control over his breathing, over his emotions. He never thought … he didn't deserve to be punished like that, did he?_

_ Stepping closer, Barney laughed._

_ "What, bro? You think you're the first to get the plastic bag treatment around here?" Barney's voice cut Clint, HARD. His breathing started to come back under control, but his emotions…_

_ Clint shook his head._

_ "That's wrong! All I did was stand up for Ben!" Ben, the smallest of the five foster children in the McFarland's home, and the youngest at age nine. Ben was closest to Clint's age of 11, and Barney, Jason and Eric – all 16 or older – ran game on the youngest in the house. Game, as in making sure they got blamed for everything, up to and including the pot Mr. McFarland had found hidden in Ben's mattress an hour ago._

_ He'd tried to explain, tried to tell Mr. McFarland that the drugs didn't belong to Ben, belonged to one of the older boys. He thought…he'd have thought Mr. McFarland would know Ben and Clint better, know that neither of them would ever do drugs. All Ben and Clint wanted to do was to stay out of trouble, keep under the radar, keep the older boys from…_

_ A palm impacted the side of Clint's face, brutally sending his lip along the rough outline of his teeth. Clint sucked in the blood he tasted in his mouth, not wanting to let it show._

_ "Can you hear me?" Barney's fingers latched around Clint's hair, jerking his head back. "You little prick, whaddya think would happen if you tried get all up in our faces? You're lucky Daddy Dearest doesn't like to leave marks."_

_ Barney's grip on his hair tightened, and an arm came around Clint's neck. Clint squirmed, knowing what his bastard of a brother was about to do. He'd done it enough times to bully him. But just like every other time, Clint couldn't break free. He bucked, but Barney's arm tightened up against his throat._

_ "Can you hear me? Huh?" Clint tried to pull in air, but he could already feel his vision starting to grey out. "Can you hear me? Hear me?...Hear…" Clint could feel his brother fading away, could feel everything starting to slip…_

_ "Hear me, dammit…"_

"Dammitall, Barton, answer me, or when I find you, I'm going to ship your sorry ass right to the goddamned brig!"

Clint groaned, consciousness rushing back in along with pain and dizziness and a wave of nausea that the loud voice in his ear most definitely was NOT helping. As he opened his eyes, and saw moonlight painting the rock around him, the last of the nightmare faded away, and he groped for the earpiece before Coulson had an aneurysm.

"Here, Coulson…" He coughed, jarring his chest and bringing back the memory of the stab wound. "Ow."

In his ear, he heard Coulson mutter something under his breath, and when Clint heard a few creative swear words clearly, he managed a weak chuckle

"Language … boss. Remember…open channel?"

There was a long pause before Coulson answered. When he did, the tension in the older man's voice was tinted with anger.

_"Barton, I realize you have extreme issues with authority."_ Holy shit, did the man sound pissed. _"But under no circumstances should you be ignoring a report call for 10 minutes."_

Clint blinked. Ten minutes? Fuck, just how long had he been out? Gingerly, he lifted his right hand, and tapped the light button on his watch.

2:30 a.m. He'd been out for two hours.

_"Barton?"_ The anger in Coulson's voice had dropped a few notches, and in its place, Clint could hear a few stirrings of concern. He didn't want to hear it, didn't need it – and had NO intention of letting Coulson know he was hurt.

So, he dug for the smartass exterior he knew Coulson wouldn't see past.

"What…what happened to the code names, 'sir?'" Clint coughed – and curled in on himself to keep a groan from escaping. "Was getting to like Hawkeye…" Clint swallowed back a small gasp, and tried to grin instead. "Again."

He could hear the older man's frustration immediately.

_"You have exactly five seconds to cut the bullshit and tell me why the hell you weren't answering me, you understand?"_

Clint sighed. If he lied, he had a gut instinct Coulson would figure it out – and come racing back to find him. Clint didn't want that, didn't want to put the agent at any kind of risk just because he'd zigged when he should've zagged.

On the other hand, telling the truth would guarantee the same reaction. So…Clint went with vague.

"Had to lay low." Clint winced, hearing the evasion in his own voice all too clearly. Well, it wasn't a lie, anyhow, and with any luck, Coulson would take it as Clint had been ducking an enemy sentry. Clint swallowed hard as a fresh wave of pain shot through his chest. "Think I can get moving now, though."

There was a moment of silence, one where Clint just knew Coulson had seen through the half-truth and was going to call him on it. Then the agent's voice came back over the comm piece.

_"Fine. But keep in contact this time. Regular check-ins every half hour from here on out." _Clint's mouth quirked up in a grin, happy they'd both been trusting each other enough the first time that Coulson hadn't insisted on that proviso._ "And if you run into any kind of resistance, use your words this time, Barton. Or else the next time you see me, it will be me leaving your sorry ass in country and to hell with whatever Maxwell did or did not have planned for you. Are we clear? _

"Aw, sir, didn't know you cared."

_"Move it, Barton. Coulson out."_

The comm quit with a crackle, and Clint sighed.

Now if he could just figure out how to get moving.

* * *

A half hour later, Clint had made about a half mile of progress.

At least, he thought it was a half mile. Every inch of it seemed to come at a price. He'd forged his way stubbornly forward, stumbling every couple of steps as his side protested loudly at having to move at all. He refused to stop, and he refused to give in. He'd be fucked if Coulson would have to haul back in to find him.

He was a fucking _Ranger_. He could do this.

Then, miracle of miracles, he'd stumbled clear of the rock maze that he'd been clawing his way through and almost stepped right off into the clear air of a dropoff. But instead of it being a sheer, splinter-edged rock wall, Clint found himself at the top of what looked to be a nothing more than a pebbled hill. He lowered himself to the ground with as much care as he could manage – and promptly felt his feet skid out from under him as the small rocks shifted.

He ended up at the bottom about 10 seconds later, coughing uncontrollably, the dust from the ground getting pulled into his lungs and making it impossible to draw a deep breath. All he could do was curl up in the fetal position and hope to not pass out. Each ragged breath slowly got deeper, and the coughing eventually slowed, but the pain increased every time he moved.

So he quit trying to move. He'd just sat here, and prayed no one with an AK-47 came stumbling along, pouring sweat, gasping for air and wondering just what the hell he'd say when Coulson checked in. The truth would just get him in trouble.

_"Hey, Agent Coulson, taking a breather…got the wind knocked out of me. Well, more than just the wind, actually…"_

_ "All's well boss, if you consider 'well' being 'collapsed on the ground with stabbing pain in my side from a fucking stab wound."_

_ "Got a helicopter nearby you can send for me, sir?"_

None of those options seemed particularly appealing, and the sweat eventually cooled on his skin, leaving him shivering in the light northwest wind that had kicked up. But Clint was no closer to moving when the earpiece crackled to life.

_"Barton, position." _Coulson sounded no less irritated than when Clint had spoken with him a half hour ago. He supposed he had something to do with that as he huffed out a breath, winced and tapped the comm link open.

"Uh, not entirely sure, sir." And he wasn't, and Coulson would just have to live with that. "But I'm making progress. More, uh…down than up now."

"Did you lose your GPS marker, Barton? Or did you decide to navigate by the stars?" Coulson clipped out every word, and even though it hurt, Clint reached into his pocket for the small hand-held device. Scowling at the bright light from the display and immediately turning it toward the sand, he rattled off the coordinates to Coulson.

There was silence for a long moment, then the agent came back on the line.

_"What aren't you telling me, Barton?"_

"Beg your pardon?" Aside from the fact that he was hurt, Clint had absolutely no idea where Coulson was going with this.

_"You're all of about 500 yards from their base camp. So, either you're lost, you're hurt – or you've decided you're making Afghanistan your new home."_

Fucking _smartass_. Clint rolled his eyes.

"I'm NOT lost, I'm just trying to make progress in one helluva bitch of a…" And the tickle that had been sitting at the back of Clint's throat took that exact moment to erupt. The pain, which had died down to a dull roar, rose to a fever pitch, and Clint let out a noise that even to his own ears sounded like a cross between a moan and a keening hiss.

The comm piece in his ear stayed mercifully quiet until the cough died down, and when Coulson spoke again, the acerbic tone had dropped a few degrees.

_"How bad, Barton?"_ Coulson got to the point, but this time, Clint could hear the older man actually attempting to be … gentle with him. _"I need to know if I need to come back for you."_

"Nothing, sir. It's NOTHING." Clint hissed the words out even as the sting of tears poked at his eyes. "I can do this. Not worth you risking yourself. Please."

_"That's …"_ Coulson's voice trailed off for a second before actually finishing the sentence. _"That's not the point here. I can be back with a medic pack in two hours."_

"NO." This time, Clint poured every ounce of strength he had left into his voice. "I can do this, sir. It's just going to take me a little…" Clint coughed again. "A little…TIME." Didn't Coulson _SEE_? He let loose his next sentence in a rush. "Too much chance of us missing each other and finding more bad guys instead."

A sigh came through loud and clear over the comm.

_"You may have a point."_ Coulson's voice had gained a measure of resolve of its own. _"But I'm not leaving you behind to struggle on your own just to prove whatever else is running that mind of yours around in circles. So…compromise. Keep moving forward, and I'll come to you. I'll check in again in a half hour."_

Shit. Shit, and more SHIT.

"Sir…"

_"I'll take that as a 'yes, sir,' Barton. Coulson out."_

For a long moment after the line went dead, Clint just sat there, working way too hard to draw air into his chest and fighting against the pain there. Sometime in the last few hours, his hand had started to throb, too, and his skin seemed coated with a slight sheen of sweat – his body feeling too warm when he moved, and chilled when he stopped.

God, this sucked. And now the one person he thought could get clear of this mess had turned around and was coming back for him. Clint fought back the sudden prickle of moisture in his eyes, and the surge of fear in his stomach. He had to do this, had to move.

His body protested as he rolled over and pushed himself onto his knees. Even that simple motion cost him, pushing the air out of his lungs and producing another low keening noise.

He _WOULD_ do this. Even if he had to crawl.

* * *

_"Did you hear? Barton didn't even get a reprimand on his file."_

_ The voice sniggered in the darkness, full of loathing and sarcastic bitterness – a tone he'd heard too many times over the past week. He'd heard it when any small group gathered, whether it was just two members of his Ranger squad, or a handful of the squeaky new recruits that hung around the edges for whatever gossip they could pick up._

_ The tone he only heard when no one thought he was listening, because people didn't have enough common fucking decency to call him out to his face. Amazing that some of these people he'd called friends. Now they all whispered behind his back, hushed tones and caustic words that half the time seemed to be said just so he could overhear them. Fucking cowards couldn't even look him in the goddamned face when they ripped him amongst themselves._

_ The bitch of it was, Clint would've taken it. He'd look them in the eye and take whatever shit they could dish out._

_ "Yeah, must've been all that blood on his hands. Maybe they think if they give him enough rope, he'll just hang himself, huh?" That voice…had to be Nelson. Fucking bastard. "You get it, hang himself? Bastard should just – "_

_ Barton swallowed hard and forced a blank look onto his face as he came around the corner._

_ "Hey." The greeting, muttered low and harsh, hadn't changed in any of the time the Rangers had known each other. Only the reaction had. At first, men had jumped – like he'd come out of nowhere and his voice represented their worst nightmares. Then gradually, with Collins running interference and forcing Clint to be more than the crazy-ass sniper he saw himself as, that "hey" had turned into more than a greeting. It had signaled acceptance, respect – and maybe even a few hints of friendship._

_ Now, though, that greeting caused both men to jump slightly, backs stiffening and heads whipping around in surprise. Clint wanted to laugh it off, make a smart-ass Barton comment about how Brown and Nelson had shit for situational awareness in a fucking combat zone._

_ Brown, at least, had the good grace to look sheepish. His face flushing red, he turned away, unable to look Clint in the eye. But Nelson…the look of surprise quickly migrated into a sneer. Clint shivered slightly, the twilight breeze cutting through his fatigues as he tried to brace himself for whatever was coming next._

_ "Barton…you jackass. Barton…"_

_ "Barton…"_

_ "Barton, answer me, dammit!"_

Cold. He was so damned cold. Clint reached for his blanket, wanting to shut out the breeze, shut out the voice – do anything to fight off the shivers wracking his body. Damned wind must've shifted out of the mountains again, and Nelson would just have to –

_"Barton. I'm not asking again. Status report. Please."_ The voice…it wasn't Nelson. And Clint's fingers closed on nothing but dirt-covered civilian cargo pants as his eyes flew open.

This wasn't his bunk. Clint found himself staring up at the stars, a low crescent moon barely visible above the high rocks surrounding him. He blinked for a long minute, not understanding where he was or what he was doing here.

Then the voice in his ear spoke again, and this time, it came across the line soft – gentle.

_"Hawkeye." _Clint blinked for a long moment, trying to place the once-familiar nickname. The Amazing Hawkeye. The circus. Where was he, really?

_ "Barton." _That made more sense. _But who…_

_ "Clint. I need to know if you're still with me." _Coulson. That voice. Clint's brain snapped out of its stupor as the name fell into place, and with it, his surroundings.

Desert. Super-secret spy agencies. Dead agents. Getting the hell out of Dodge.

_Got it._ He reached up and keyed the comm link.

"Here, Coulson." Clint heard the rasp in his voice, even as his wrist throbbed in time with his pulse and his chest kept trying to seize up and make him cough. God, he hurt, in too many places to count. And that made no sense to him.

_"Tell me what's going on, Barton."_ The tone in the older man's voice sang out loud and clear over the line, making it clear he wanted answers this time. An _order._ Clint let out a low moan, trying to figure just how the hell he'd lost control of this situation, how Coulson knew something was wrong and seemed determined to _FIX_ him.

"I … something's wrong." Clint fought to keep the tremor of fear out of his voice. "Keep…keep going down. Keep dreaming. I'm here…then I'm not. Something's WRONG."

There was a moment of silence before Coulson answer.

_"OK. I need to know what happened. Now."_ Coulson's voice seemed calm, but there was a note of urgency there that Clint hadn't heard from the agent before.

_Fuck._ He cared. Coulson cared, and because of that, he was going to try and _HELP_ him.

"No…" Clint coughed, and for the first time, felt a hint of a coppery taste at the back of his throat. "No, you don't need anything. Working…on it. Coming... to you." Clint pulled himself slowly forward, making what progress his body allowed him to. Slow, ponderous progress, but he'd do this.

Coulson would NOT put himself at risk for Clint. Wasn't going to happen.

_"Barton, if that were going to happen, it would have already. You've missed your last five check-ins." _Coulson's voice was firm, unyielding. _"Let me help. Give me your coordinates."_

No. No way. How had he lost that much time? A fresh surge of fear, not for himself, gave Clint a little adrenaline. His senses flared to some semblance of normal, his body suddenly finding that little added bit of strength. He flailed his way to his feet, stumbling forward, his legs refusing to hold the weight with any kind of assurance.

_What the hell…_this wasn't…he couldn't…

"Sir…no…don't. Can't have …" Clint kept pulling himself forward, trying to figure out just when he'd lost control of all this. He couldn't let Coulson do this. "Please…don't come."

There. He'd said it. Now all he had to do was convince the older man to just leave him. Didn't Coulson SEE? With that surge of adrenaline, Clint's brain locked onto everyone – every_thing_ – he'd lost. Barney. Jacques. The circus. Collins. McDermid. The _fucking U.S. Army_ and the Rangers and the only family he'd had since his parents had died 16 long years ago.

_"Barton, stop."_

"NO." Clint forced the words out past the hitch in his breathing. "Don't you … don't you get it? Collin, McDermid…my fault. Could've stopped it…could've not been there."

_ "Barton."_ Coulson sounded confused, baffled almost. But Clint didn't care. He kept going.

"Can't be the reason…you…you get hurt, sir."

_"Dammitall, Barton. CLINT. You won't be."_ Clint could hear emotion creep into Coulson's voice, maybe even a little bit of pleading. It didn't matter. None of it did, not anymore. It couldn't, not for him. _"Listen to me. I'm not going to let you – "_

"'m sor…sorry…." And then Clint's voice dissolved in a wracking, wet cough. His knees refused to hold him, and he collapsed against the rock behind him. As he did, he felt an opening with his left hand. Even as he did, a wave of vertigo sent him tipping sideways, his mad reach for purchase coming up with absolutely nothing but thin air.

He fell – hard. The impact, first with the side of the small cave he'd managed to find and then with the ground, pushed what little air he could get into his lungs back out. His whole chest suddenly felt … compressed, like an invisible giant's hand had closed around him.

He felt…he almost couldn't breathe. His whole body trembled as the night air again cooled the sweat on his skin, and then the chill was gone, overtaken by a wave of pain and furious heat. Curling in on himself, Clint fought to get any air he could into his lungs.

"Cl….can…c'm to the…"

_"Barton, shut UP."_ The anger was back in the agent's voice now, and even as spots of gray started to creep into his vision and consciousness began to swim away yet again, Clint gasped out the words he needed Coulson to hear.

"Don…don't c'm back…" The words slurred no matter how hard Clint tried, and the gray started to turn to black. "Not…no…worth…gonna be…"

And then the darkness grabbed him again.

* * *

_He didn't want to be here._

_ No, scratch that. Not only did Clint not want to be here – on a fucking night patrol with temps in the low 20s and Mother-fucking Nature deciding a little light snow would be the perfect touch – he didn't deserve to be here._

_ Fucking Nelson. It had to have been Nelson who went and played recess tattletale to McDermid. Someone had, and it wasn't like Barton hadn't pulled out the William Tell routine before to liven things up on a shit-tastically boring day. Hell, all someone had to do was ask, and "The Amazing Hawkeye" would make a re-appearance from his olden days._

_ Not like anyone knew his former stage name, though – not even Collins, who knew just about everything about Barton, including his childhood in foster homes, on the streets and finally in the circus. Hell, it was Collins who had found the bow and quiver for sale in Shor Bazaar in Kabul. On leave, no one recognized them in civvies in the bazaars, and the hour or so his spotter had disappeared with a flippant remark about finding a little local "civility" had apparently been spent finding Clint the one thing he'd been forced to leave behind in the states._

_ "You deserve this, Barton," Collins had told him as he'd produced it from his backpack when they'd gotten back to camp. "Try and have a little fun once in a while."_

_ Since then, the bow and arrows – surprisingly sturdy, probably someone's hunting gear being sold for cash – had been stress relief for him, entertainment for the rest of the camp. He'd take down just about anything from any distance, IF the bet was right and the audience big enough._

_ Clint scowled. Nelson had been the one to up the ante last night, telling Clint he wouldn't dare try a live-target exercise – literally and figuratively, as Nelson grabbed a pomegranate off the table in the open-air recreation area, and placed it mockingly on top of his head._

_ "Game on." The words were out of Clint's mouth before he even thought about the intelligence of actually aiming an arrow at a squadmate, and the arrow nocked before anyone had even a chance to offer any words of wisdom._

_ A split-second later, the ripe red fruit exploded off of Nelson's head, a look of shock and fury quickly covered by thick runs of pomegranate juice streaming down the man's face._

_ "One live target destroyed, one still standing." Clint couldn't keep the laughter out of his voice as he mocked Nelson. "Anyone else got any bright ideas?"_

_ In retrospect, mocking the man had probably been the last straw. Of course, if Clint counted every last straw Nelson looked to have stacked on his back, he was pretty sure the man's spine would've fractured about 10 times over. Shivering in the darkness, Clint rolled his eyes. Why the hell Nelson ever had joined an elite Army unit was completely beyond his comprehension. The man seemed ready to piss his pants if anyone clicked a safety off a weapon near him._

_ Reaching down, Clint thumbed the light on his watch. 5 a.m. Sun would be up in another half hour or so, and then this shit punishment duty would be over and McDermid could claim he'd done right by Nelson. Clint fought the urge to roll his eyes again, as he reached for his radio to report in. McDermid was good people, but Nelson … the man practically begged Clint to find shit to irritate him with._

_ The pomegranate deserved to have died a nicer death, though. Too much good fruit wasted on a fucking lost cause._

_ "Base, this is Echo 4-9-November-Sierra-Papa." Clint repeated the phrase, identifying his unit ID and the night surveillance patrol he was on._

_ No answer._

_ Growling in irritation, Clint reached down to check the battery power. Hell, the damned thing had been working an hour ago when he'd checked in, and he'd made damned-all sure the thing had a full battery before he'd left camp. Screwing around with a dead radio on a night patrol where the enemy liked leaving nasty little surprises buried in the road was a quick trip to a shallow grave._

_ The power light on the radio, though, didn't blink when Clint gave a toggle of the switch. He did it again, and still no joy._

_ Shit. Of course the radio would have a short. Or a dead battery. Because this night wasn't fucked up enough already. Heaving a sigh, Barton shoved the receiver back into its designated spot in his backpack, and shouldered the damned thing._

_ The unit would send someone out to find him when he missed his check-in. The least he could do was make it to the road and meet them halfway. Pushing to his feet, Clint started sliding his way down the small hill he'd been using as his observation post. He stopped just short of the graded surface, not wanting to invite any IEDs his way if someone had been a busy fucking bee when he'd been walking the other half-mile of the surveillance route._

_ Fifteen minutes later, Clint wondered why he'd ever been cold that night. Double-timing his run had worked up a good sweat, and his body hummed in appreciation for the exertion. A grim smirk crossed Clint's features. If he hauled ass, he could be halfway back before his ride even showed up._

_ Then night went to blinding sunlight, and Clint dropped to the ground, getting his hands over his head before anything came flying his direction. A split-second later, the crash of an explosion threatened to rupture his eardrums, and the ground beneath him shook._

_ Clint's hands were pulling him forward before the motion even stopped._

_ "No…nononono…"_

"NO!"

Even as Clint's hands flexed in the hard dirt beneath him, he heard cold laughter bounce off hard surfaces all around him.

"So this is the example of American intelligence?" The words, harsh Pushtu rolling off someone's native tongue, forced Clint to try move away from the scuffling noise next to him, but he couldn't. He could hardly draw air into his lungs, much less pull away from the foul voice and even fouler breath now clouding his face. Above his face, he heard a soft 'click.'

The sound of a safety being slid off a weapon.

"Intelligence. Pah." Then came the sound of someone spitting, a wet sound of something hitting the ground, and a rough cough of a chuckle. "You are hardly worth wasting a bullet on."

Clint couldn't tell if the voice was real or not, if he still dreamed in the darkness or if reality had returned for one last visit. It didn't matter, really. Because as he struggled just to breathe, gasping in small sips of air around whatever the hell sat on his chest, Clint didn't care. The inky blackness already crept back toward him, what little oxygen he could get in his lungs not enough to stave it off.

He couldn't even open his eyes as the cool metal of a gun barrel settled on his forehead.

"May you rot in whatever hell you believe in."

A moment later, the sound of a round being expelled from a handgun echoed in the space around him. He heard it. Clint heard the noise, and wondered just how he could hear the sound of the gunshot that had taken his life.

Even more, he wondered whether the pain and the lack of air truly meant he'd found the hell the terrorist had pushed him toward. Then an immeasurably heavy weight landed on his chest, forced every bit of air he'd managed to pull in back out in a weak, shrill scream.

_Couldn't…he couldn't BREATHE…_

Then as quickly as the weight had landed, it was pulled up and away. A minute later, two hands closed on his face, one slapping against his cheek in an almost gentle movement.

_What the fuck?_

"Hold on, Barton. C'mon. Look at me. I didn't hike all the way back in here to carry out a dead body." A hand closed around his wrist, and dimly, Clint realized fingers were reaching for a pulse. The tightness in his chest loosening just the tiniest bit, he forced open his eyes – and found another face just inches away from his, the eyes on that face searching for a reaction.

Clint closed his eyes, and focused strictly on trying to breathe.

_ Coulson._

Son of a bitch.


	9. The path to heaven runs

_Author's notes: First of all, to everyone who reviewed…thank you for sticking with me and the writer's block that was chapter seven. Eight is done quickly because I knew what had to be done here. Seven was an issue because while I had a rough plan, I couldn't see the situation playing out – and I had to wait for the idea to get past the real-life struggles I was encountering. Your patience, and the reviews I got in response, were much appreciated. I hope you all enjoy this chapter as well. It is … very dear to me._

_Also, a shout-out to Aggie2011 and Nonyvole, without whom, this chapter would not have gotten beta-ed and approved. Their support has been invaluable as well. Also, GreenLoki? You are a riot, as always – thanks for that "message truncated due to length" review I've grown to love._

* * *

"Hold on, Barton. C'mon. Look at me. I didn't hike all the way back in here to carry out a dead body."

Phil Coulson could literally see the relief ghost across Barton's face when the sniper realized what had just happened – that Coulson had, for all intents and purposes, put his own life on the line to save him, and to hell the bullshit Barton had spewed in an attempt to get left behind.

Get left behind to _die_, Phil amended to himself. And if he didn't get to work, that might still be the outcome. The line was starting to get pretty blurred.

"Barton, I need you to listen to me." Phil already had the medic pack shrugged off his back, pulling the zipper to open it even as he lowered it to the ground. As his hand went to the back of the pack for the oxygen and the corresponding mask, he realized Barton had opened his eyes and was staring at him – fear and pain and, of all things, _trust_ all mixed into that unwavering stare.

"You're listening. Good." Phil ripped the plastic covering off the non-rebreather mask, and quickly uncoiled the tubing. As he attached it to the small tank and adjusted the flow, he started talking.

_Diarrhea of the mouth._ Best piece of advice he'd ever gotten in medic training, and with any luck, Barton would listen, too. Phil lifted the kid's head, sliding the mask over his face and the strap behind his head.

"I need you to trust me for a few minutes here. Going to see what we can do to help you breathe, first." Seeing a slight mist grow inside the mask, Phil nodded, content that the mask was doing what it could. If he was right, the oxygen would only do so much good.

"Kevlar's coming off, Barton." Phil didn't even give the sniper a chance to respond, pulling the Velcro tabs off and away, and hesitating only a moment before pulling Barton up and forward with one hand, pulling the vest off with the other, careful not to pull off the oxygen mask. He lowered the sniper back to the ground in almost the same movement, but not before a cry escaped him, the little bit of air Barton had been pulling into his lungs dissolving into a weak cough.

"…can…can't…bre…"

"Breathe, Barton. I doubt that it's easy or that it feels particularly nice right now, but you're managing." Phil grabbed a pair of scissors from the pack and made quick work of the right side Barton's shirt, exposing exactly what he'd expected to see – or at the least, some semblance of it.

Frankly, he'd figured Barton had a bullet in his lung. The small knife wound somehow seemed anti-climactic as a result, as well as the lack of blood. But everything else Phil could now see – the hyper-expanded chest, the way Barton bucked and heaved under his touch – forced his lips upward in a grim smirk.

_Right._ Needle decompression. He could do this.

"Barton, can you hear me?" Phil's hands closed first around a pressure bandage, but then shifted to the occlusive dressings he knew were in there. He didn't think the dressing would resolve the trapped air and blood enough to help, but it wouldn't hurt.

He had it ripped open in the next breath.

"This is going to hurt, and I'm sorry, but I'm going to need your help." Without any other warning, Phil had the bandage on Barton's chest. The sniper's eyes opened wide with the pressure, and Phil nodded in response and grabbed Barton's left arm, pulled it across his chest, and slid his own hand off as he slapped Barton's down on top.

"Hold that, and don't move." Phil didn't want to take the time to tape it down yet, not with the way Barton was breathing. All he did was make sure that one corner of the dressing stayed clear of the grip Barton had clamped on with.

"Cou…sn…" The word barely made it through the plastic of mask, but Phil heard it and turned back.

Barton's eyes were half-closed now, and Phil could see the start of purple and blue creeping into the sniper's lips. Dammitall. Without even stopping to think, Phil reached out with his free hand and slapped Barton's cheek – hard enough to get his attention, not enough to hurt.

The response was immediate and gratifying. Barton's eyes flew back open, and then that stare locked onto Phil once again – fear and pain being quickly replaced by not a little awe.

"Better. Listen to me, Barton. I can fix this." Phil knew he could. He'd done it before. "I need two minutes. That's it. You can give me two minutes."

"How…do you…kn…"

"Because you're still here, and you're fighting too damned hard to _stay_ here." Convinced Barton had gotten the point, Phil started rifling through the pack again, talking even as he found what he needed.

"Keep breathing, Barton." A 14-gauge IV catheter, and a syringe. Check. "Focus on that." A pair of gloves, and an alcohol wipe. Phil looked briefly at the drug box, then turned away.

Barton didn't have the time for a painkiller to kick in. Behind him, Phil heard the wheezing note in Barton's lungs grow worse, even as the breaths themselves grew weaker. He turned around, and saw the sniper's eyes had drifted shut.

"Barton." No response.

"Clint." Still no answer.

Fuck. This time, the sniper was out. For a moment, Phil wondered just what the hell else was going on in the kid's body, and then he forced the thought out of his head. It wouldn't matter what else was broken if Phil didn't fix the first item on the priority list.

Pulling a glove quickly onto one hand, he picked up the scissors and cut the thumb off the other, then slid the catheter needle into the latex. Phil sent a quick look toward the sky, and focused on the needle in his hand – hoping the hell what he was about to do would actually work.

* * *

_Warm._

_ Clint Barton woke slowly, savoring the warmth around him and pulling a clear, deep breath into his lungs. It had to still be early, or Carson would have rousted them all out of the bunk area. Hell, he would've dumped Clint out first and reminded him that cutting classes as a senior in high school wouldn't look good on his Army application – or make it any easier to take the ASVAB._

_ To hell with school right now, and to hell with the ASVAB. He was WARM, dammit, and he never woke up warm – not with where Jacques insisted on setting the thermostat. Even with three blankets and a corner bunk, Clint never felt truly warm._

_ Or for that matter, safe. Too many years on the street – and before that, in a foster home – being forced to sleep lightly in case someone came up on him and decided he'd be better off someplace else._

_ Four years later, months short of his 18th birthday, Clint wondered if that tiny corner of his mind would ever quit screaming out. Even when he slept, his nights were fractured – fragments of memory, twisted with time, working their way out in his sleep._

_ Under the pillow, Clint's hand closed silently on the small switchblade he always held close. He wouldn't need it, but it helped simply to know it was there._

_ In the darkness, he heard a low voice humming a familiar tune. Familiar, but … Clint groaned softly. He didn't want to play 'Guess That Tune' at some ungodly hour of the day. He wanted to sleep._

_ He swiped his hand at the blanket on his face, pulling it away._

_ "Kno…kn…" He tried raising his voice, but all that came out was a hoarse cough._

"Kno…i'off."

Next to him, the humming came to a stop.

"About time you decided to rejoin the land of the living, Barton." Clint's hand came to rest not on a blanket, but plastic. His fingers tapped at it, his mind trying to reconcile something there that shouldn't be.

A hand closed over his, and pulled it away.

"Leave it alone, Barton. I'm pretty sure you still need the oxygen, at least for the moment."

Oxygen. An oxygen _mask_. Clint's hazy mind made the connection, just about the time he realized he really was actually _warm_ – and not _hurting_, not like he had before, just a dull ache on his right side. He let himself drift on that realization for a moment, and then came another.

"I can breathe." The words came out at that same whisper as before, his voice weak and hoarse. But as he spoke, Clint didn't feel his chest tighten, hungry for air. He didn't need to work for the air now, not like he had before.

Next to him, the voice came back again.

"You say that like it's a surprise." The heavy note of dry wit in the voice clicked another piece of the puzzle home for Clint, and he turned his head slightly to the side, opening his eyes.

_Coulson_. The agent sat there calmly, his eyes moving with Clint, a half-smirk creasing his face. Clint closed his eyes, not wanting to see the bastard look quite so … satisfied. His mind continued to clear, though, and bits and pieces of the last few hours started to fall back into place.

He'd told Coulson to _leave_. To leave him behind and not look back. He'd been…he was…

"Wh' d'ya –" What had been a small tickle at the back of Clint's throat erupted into a full-fledged cough. Instinctively, Clint tried to curl in on himself, trying to ward off the pain he knew was coming. Before he could, though, one hand pushed him back to the ground – and the other braced his right side.

The expected spike of pain never materialized. The spasm passed with Coulson's grip firm against his side, and then the pressure let up. Clint turned his head, more awake now than he'd felt since he'd first gotten jumped.

"Wha t' hell, C'lson?" Clint frowned as his words slurred slightly.

The agent reached over and tapped lightly on his right side.

"Occlusive dressing there," and then a second tap, further up and more toward Clint's middle. "Makeshift chest tube there." Clint started to sit up, wanting to see what Coulson had described, but the agent's hand landed on his sternum, pushing him back to the ground.

"No. Nothing you need to have eyes on. Trust me when I say they're there, and that you don't want to move any more than you have to right now." Clint turned his head to look at the agent, and caught the frown on the older man's face as the two locked gazes.

"I'm going to assume for now you didn't know that a knife had actually stabbed you." Clint felt his eyes widen. _Stabbed?_ Fuck, he thought the knife had slid through the opening in the Kevlar and gashed open his side.

Coulson nodded, whatever he'd been thinking apparently confirmed.

"The stab wound created a leak – air into your chest cavity, and a fair bit of blood as well." Coulson continued talking, but Clint saw him reach for something – a small rectangle with a cord trailing off it. "Tension pneumo…well, with the blood, hemo, too." Coulson looked to be reading a display, a soft red glow illuminating his face. Whatever he saw must have satisfied him, because he placed the display back on the ground, and again locked his gaze with Clint.

"Your right lung collapsed, Barton. And that's only part of the damage." Coulson frowned. "You weren't going anywhere, not without a hand up and out. So why were you hell-bent on convincing me you were in some magical state of bliss?"

Clint blinked at Coulson, not following. He'd told the agent to leave him behind, not to risk…not to come back for him. The injuries didn't matter, not now.

"Wh'y'd…come back…" Clint tried shaking his head, and got rewarded with a fresh spike of pain. By way of response, Coulson grabbed his chin, and forced him to look back at him.

The frown had disappeared, but the heat in Coulson's eyes burned.

"If I hadn't come back, you would be dead, Barton. You would have _stopped breathing_. You almost did anyhow. And that's not all." Coulson grabbed at something, and Clint realized his was his right hand when the agent raised it so Clint could see. His camouflage kerchief was gone, replaced by layers of gauze that already had blood seeping through.

"You have a quarter-inch deep gash from the base of your thumb down into the wrist. It's red and it's swollen, and I can only do so much with saline and antibiotic ointment. It's infected." Coulson lowered Clint's hand, resting it on Clint's chest, and tapped his side again. "I'm reasonably certain you at least cracked a couple of ribs, judging by the bruising, and that knife wound is as swollen and red as your hand."

Coulson continued the inventory in rapid-fire fashion, lifting Clint's left hand so he could see the tubing taped down there, the IV…IV? Clint blinked again, trying to track where the tubing was connected, and ... just how long had he been out, anyhow?

"Three hours, Barton. You were out for THREE hours. That's the last bag of fluids I have in the pack." Coulson stopped for a moment, taking a deep breath. When he continued, his voice had dropped to a deadly soft pitch.

"I flew halfway around the world to attempt a rescue for two people who I couldn't even confirm were still alive, Barton. You can't tell me you wouldn't have done the same thing, because you came out here with me. So why, WHY," and Coulson reached out and tapped Clint's chest, "would you think I would just leave you behind?"

Clint didn't even have to think. The words were out of his mouth almost before the agent had finished talking, and he forced them out as clear as he could manage them.

"You can't save me, Coulson." Clint closed his eyes, suddenly too tired to care. "I don't deserve to be saved."

* * *

For a long moment, Coulson let his gaze rest on the rise and fall of Barton's chest, content just to see it moving normally while he tried to comprehend what the young man had just told him. The weak sunlight starting to work its way into the small alcove Barton had somehow stumbled into gave him enough light to see by.

"Barton…you're injured. And you're sick." Both truths, and both more than sufficient reasons for the sniper to be emotionally unstable right now. "I refuse to take the word of a 21-year-old with a 102-degree fever and more holes than a pincushion over my own evaluation."

Behind the oxygen mask, Barton coughed slightly – or scoffed. Coulson really wasn't sure which.

"You should." Barton's voice carried through the mask clearly now, and Coulson recognized that the oxygen and fluids had done enough to revive the sniper far enough to argue. "Before you end up on the list."

Coulson raised an eyebrow in response.

"A list? Do tell."

"Too many…too many people." Barton closed his eyes again, wheezing out a sigh. "Died because of me."

"Barton, I've seen your file. I know about your parents, and how they died." Coulson had done his reading on the jet, as sick as it had made him. He winced slightly and continued. "I've also seen your psych exams, and your intelligence tests, and you dealt with it." Actually, he'd more than dealt with it. Barton could have gone any number of infinitely bad directions after leaving the foster system, but he hadn't. He was _here_. "Unconventionally, but you dealt with it. You wouldn't be here, serving in the Rangers, if you hadn't."

"Not…not them."

"Then who are you talking about?" Clint's face closed off again, and Phil let out a long, low sigh. No one ever should have had the childhood Barton had – and yet, he'd come through it stronger. He'd survived all that – and _now_ he wanted to give up? It made no sense. He could let this go, haul Barton the hell out of the desert, and let SHIELD's shrinks have a field day. If he did that, though, Barton would be headshrunk out of all possible usefulness – and probably rejected out of hand.

He'd promised Barton a future. He'd meant it as a job, but now it had taken on more meaning. He needed Barton to believe in an immediate future, the next minute, the next 10 minutes, the next hour and each and every hour after that. He needed Barton to fight, and instead, all he wanted to do was quit.

A cold stirring of anger began to rise in Phil's gut. He could not – would not – leave Barton behind, not now – and certainly not for whatever shit reasons Barton couldn't reconcile himself with. He looked down at the sniper again, and saw Barton staring at the entrance to the cave, ignoring Coulson, lost in whatever thoughts were going through his half-baked mind.

No, Phil wouldn't leave him. But until he got behind the why of matter, he couldn't convince Barton of that.

So, Phil would do what he did best. He grabbed Barton's chin, and turned his face back toward Phil's, making sure Barton could see the bastard smirk and the cold, ruthless determination on his face.

"We've got a half hour until that IV finishes, Barton. You get that long to explain this to me, to convince me to leave you here." Barton tried to pull away, but Phil tightened his grip.

"You want to convince me you're not worth it, you're going to start talking, Barton." Coulson let the smile drift a touch higher, just enough to make it seem like a grin.

This time, Barton didn't fight him. Under his grip, the sniper pulled in a few shallow breaths, and his eyes widened when he realized Phil wasn't going to back off. For a moment, another emotion dwelled there – pain, raw disbelief that Coulson had decided to let him prove his case.

Phil almost broke at that look, but before he could, Barton closed his eyes, and huffed out a breath, fogging the oxygen mask.

"Fine." Barton's tone grew bitter. "You wanna know, you'll know. Then it's over."

* * *

_"No…nononono!"_

_ Even as the heat of the explosion rolled over him, singeing his eyebrows and what little beard had grown in 24 hours, Clint scrambled to his feet. They were the only group out here – the small forward base that could, McDermid had dubbed them – and unless some fuckhead terrorists had run over their OWN BOMB, that meant those were his people down there._

_ His people, burning._

_ His FRIENDS – who had probably come out looking for him when he didn't check in. Fear, pure and unadulterated, fueled Clint's sprint down the remainder of the hill and into the road. He didn't even bother watching his footing now. If the bad guys had buried another IED, so be it._

_ He got within 10 yards of the flaming wreckage of the Humvee before the heat forced him to pull up short, every exposed surface of his skin feeling like it had caught fire. He turned away, sobbing and dropping to his knees._

_ "No…God, please…HELP!" Clint wanted to turn back, come at it from another angle, but something in the wreckage shifted with an audible "pop," and Clint flattened himself to the ground again as an explosion rocked the vehicle a second time._

_ God, who was in there when it blew?_

_**Fuel tank**__, thought Clint uselessly, panting in the heat as he pulled himself along the packed dirt, away from the heat, aiming for the slight culvert that ran alongside the road. He finally reached it and pulled himself over and down, cool air and damp ground rushing up to meet him._

_ "Fun…funny meetin' …y'here…" The voice made Clint jump, and the hand that touched his arm a fraction of a second later made him jump further. But he knew that voice, and even as he turned, a rush of relief flooded his system._

_ "Collins." Clint had his backpack shrugged off in less than a second, searching for his small flashlight, wanting to see his friend in something other than the first gray hints of dawn. "Jesus, I thought everyone was dead."_

_ Next to him, Collins coughed._

_ "Everyone … everyone else…" Collins coughed again, weaker this time. And as Clint's hand finally closed around the light and thumbed on the switch, his brain refused to process what he was seeing – even as Collins continued to talk._

_ "McDermid and I … thought you were…" Clint's eyes landed on the blood first, blood that seemed to paint the ground around his friend. "Leave it … t'you…shit duty run…and you can't…" Then Clint started really seeing Collins. His face, pale – God, almost white. His chest, panting with exertion. "Two others…they were…they…hit a bump…in the…road." Clint ran the light down the rest of Collins' body, and stopped at what remained Collins' right leg._

_ "Wha…what happened…" Collins tried to turn, looked where Clint was looking, then collapsed back to the ground. Clint swished the light back up to Collins' face._

_ "No, Collins, you don't get to do this." In his terror, Clint gave up all pretense of digging for his medical supplies and instead just unzipped his pack and dumped it upside down. Using his flashlight, he grabbed first package of clotting factor, ripping it open and dumping it on the mangled stump of Collins' right leg. Then his hands closed on the pressure bandage. He ripped it open, and looked at the wad of material._

_ Pressure bandage were meant for wounds. How the hell did you wrap it around something that just didn't exist anymore?_

_ Fuck it. Clint grabbed the whole thing and shoved it against the stump. Collins squirmed weakly, gagging with pain. _

_ "B'rtn, stop." Collins' hands flailed uselessly against Clint's grip, trying to push him away but more like uselessly slapping weakly against Clint's wrists. "No…not…gonna…help –"_

_ "Yes, it will." Even as he said it, Collins' word sunk into his brain. His leg was gone. Clint kept the pressure on the leg, and reached for his pack, wanting the radio. They needed a medic. The camp would've heard the explosion, would be scrambling a team, but he needed to radio for a …_

_ "The radio's dead." Clint dropped the flashlight and turned back to Collins, looking down even as he reflexively clamped tighter on the leg wound. "That's why you couldn't reach me…the damned thing died."_

_ Collins coughed again, weaker._

_ "F'gures." Collins tried to reach out with a hand, but couldn't even lift his fingers off the ground now. Quickly, Clint slid his free hand into his friend's, gripping his hand and wrist in a tight grip, wanting to reassure._

_ Wanting to anchor his friend in the here and now._

_ "Just…hold on." Clint rejected the logical side of his brain starting to talk to him. He had pressure on the leg wound. All he needed to do was keep pressure. "Collins, they're coming. You know they are."_

_ "Not…not soon enough." The sky had been growing incrementally brighter, and Clint could see his friend's face clearer now. Collins' eyes were still open somehow, and those eyes locked with Clint's with a single-minded purpose._

_ "No…not your fault, Barton." In Clint's hand, Collins' gripped started to loosen slightly. "Ke..keep up…R'bin…od. Guys…th…they love it. Nel…Nelson's a …pri…" The words trailed off, all of Collins' effort spent on breathing now._

_ "No." Clint breathed out the word, his grip on his friend's hand now bruising. "Collins, stay with me, please. They're coming, do you hear me?"_

_ Collins looked right at him. Clint would swear it later. His mouth opened, a little spray of blood coming out with an almost impreceptable cough._

_ And then those eyes…they went blank. And Collins' chest, mid-rise, stopped and pushed out a breath – and didn't take another._

_ "NO." Clint let go of the pressure bandage, moving up to his friend's chest. Both hands landed on the straps of Collins' flak vest, ripping open the Velcro and pulling the front half up and away. "Not letting you, Collins. Fucking not letting you."_

_ Clint leaned over, placing two fingers on the carotid, feeling for a pulse at the same time he listened for a breath. He found neither._

_ He could do this. He __**had**__ to do this. Adrenaline flew into Clint's blood stream. Keep Collins going until the medics got here. Clint found the sternum with his fingers, moved two fingers up. Placed his left hand, and then his right on top of it._

_ "Push hard. If you're doing CPR, you have to make sure the compressions do their job." The words of the instructor in basic came back to him. "Don't be afraid of hurting them, or if you hear or feeling things breaking. Ribs breaking are normal in CPR. You're keeping them alive."_

_ Fifteen compressions, hard, compressing the chest. Making Collins' heart work for him. Then he stopped, made sure Collins' airway was open, and pinched the nose shut and delivered two breaths._

_ Then back to the chest._

_ He could do this._

_ He __**had**__ to do this._

"They pulled me off'm." Clint's voice, now at the end of his tale, sounded dead to Phil. The slur had also started to creep back in. "Fought 'em, tried to ge'back. Medic took over, then…just stopped."

Phil looked down at Barton, trying to understand. He'd known all this. Well, not the reason Barton was out on the night surveillance, but it didn't surprise him – either the reason or the fact that McDermid had gone that route. Unofficial, off-the-record punishments ruled the day when you wanted to make a point but not screw up someone's career.

He raised an eyebrow at the sniper, who somehow managed to roll his eyes before they drifted shut.

"'Nother wound, back. CPR jus…ripped…heart, lung…somethin' like that. So…so intent on…trying to save him, didn' … see all the blood comin' out…under his back." Clint coughed again. "All…on me. Should've looked."

"Barton, you're not a medic. And I saw the report. Collins died of exsanguination. Blood loss, Barton. From the leg wound. The femoral artery was laid wide open. Nothing you could've done. Even the pressure bandage was like trying to stop a river with a paper cup."

"B'llsh." Barton didn't open his eyes, just muttered under the oxygen mask. "Coulda…not been there. Coulda…known the radio…shoulda…known…the roa …my fault. Killed Collins. Killed McDer…why t' fuck…those two…coulda sent…'nyone…they…cared."

Barton heaved in a shaky breath, then spat out the next words.

"Cared about _me_. Cared. I got them killed."

Phil closed his eyes against the sudden rush of emotion. That was it, wasn't it? Everyone – from his parents to his brother to that mentor in the circus who had died weeks before his high school graduation, Collins and McDermid – who had ever bothered to care about Barton had died. And when Barton had gone down here, he hadn't seen a way to keep anyone else from caring except to push them away.

This time, Phil hauled in the shaky breath. How the fuck did you refute reasoning like that? It hit too close to home. Barrett, Callahan…and everyone else Phil had lost over the years suddenly took up residence in his head. They haunted him every damned day, and he let them drive him – to push him to be the agent he not only wanted to be, but that everyone else thought he could be.

Who he had to be to survive.

And suddenly, with a flash of memory – the rapport of an Uzi, a last gasped breath, gunpowder and blood and the smell of death – Phil knew how he could get Clint to fight a little further.

"Maybe it's time you heard someone else's story, Barton."

* * *

_ Author's note: This chapter is dedicated to the men and women who have encountered the terrible weapon of war known as the IED – improved explosive device – and those who work to clear them and save others from the same fate._


End file.
